mimiiiiirnnmnnif  Hi  llllllll  llliinii 


IIIIIIIIK  IIIHIliUJI 


AA\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ 


A\\\\S\\\\\\\ 


^»»>N'*.')S.\-N-.'S;>; 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


TY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

U         ^iGELES 
r  me  adv 


^^€^ 


yTj^U&^d-      <l&yCtsU 


*£-&^L*/ 


VIEWS   A-FOOT; 


OR, 


Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff. 


BY 

J.  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


WITH  A  PREFACE  BY   N.   P.  WILLIS. 


"Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a; 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

Winter's  Tale. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
DAVID    McKAY,    PUBLISHER, 

2}  South  Ninth  Street. 
189I. 


145779 


W3I 


TO 

FRANK  TAYLOR 

THESE  RECORDS   OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE 
WHOSE  TOILS  AND  ENJOYMENTS  WE  HAVE  SHARED  TOGETHER 

ARE 

AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED 

BY 

HIS  RELATIVE  AND  ERIEND. 


TO  THE  HEADER 


In  presenting  to  the  public  a  new  and  improved  edition 
of  this  record  of  his  wanderings,  the  author  could  not 
justly  suffer  the  opportunity  to  go  by  without  expressing 
his  grateful  acknowledgment  of  the  kindness  with  which 
his  work  has  been  received.  Although  his  aim  was  simply 
to  give  a  narrative  of  personal  experience  which  it  was 
hoped  might  be  of  some  value  to  many  a  toiling  student  in 
the  college  of  the  world,  he  was  aware  that  it  would  be 
considered  a  test  of  his  literary  ability,  and  that  whatever 
hearing  he  might  have  hoped  to  obtain  for  the  works  of 
maturer  years  would  be  dependent  on  its  success.  With  a 
total  ignorance  of  the  arts  of  book-making,  and  uncertain 
whether  a  new  voice  from  the  track  where  thousands  had 
been  before  him  would  find  a  patient  auditory,  it  was  there- 
fore not  without  considerable  anxiety  that  he  gave  his  vol- 
ume to  the  world.  But  he  was  not  prepared  to  hope  for 
such  an  immediate  and  generous  favor  as  it  received.  By 
the  press  of  our  own  country,  as  well  as  the  more  rigid  re- 
viewers of  Great  Britain,  whatever  merits  it  possesses  were 
cordially  appreciated,  while  its  faults  were  but  lightly 
touched — perhaps  from  a  sympathy  with  the  youth  of  the 
author  and  the  plan  of  his  enthusiastic  pilgrimage.  But, 
'  what  was  most  grateful  of  all,  he  learned  that  many  another 

young  and  hopeful  spirit  had  been  profited  and  encouraged 
by  his  own  experience  and  was  ready  to  try  the  world  with 
as  little  dependence  on  worldly  means.  The  letters  he  re- 
ceived from  persons  whose  hopes  and  circumstances  were 

5 


6  TO  THE  READER. 

what  his  own  had  been  gave  welcome  evidence  that  he  had 
not  written  in  vain.  He  will  not  say  that  this  knowledge 
repaid  him  for  whatever  toil  and  hardship  he  had  under- 
gone— whoever  is  subjected  to  the  same  experience  will 
learn  that  it  brings  its  own  reward  to  the  mind — but  it  will 
nerve  him  henceforth  to  bear  any  lot,  however  severe, 
through  which  he  may  be  enabled  to  say  a  word  that  shall 
cheer  or  strengthen  another. 

He  is  now  fully  aware  how  much  he  has  omitted  from 
these  pages  which  would  have  been  curious,  and  perhaps 
instructive,  to  the  reader,  how  many  blunders  of  inexpe- 
rience, how  much  thoughtless  confidence  in  the  world,  how 
many  painful  struggles  with  pride  and  a  too-selfish  inde- 
pendence, how  many  strange  extremities  of  want  and  amus- 
ing expedients  of  relief.  His  reluctance  to  relate  much 
that  was  entirely  personal  and  could  not  have  been  told 
without  some  little  sacrifice  of  feeling  has  since  been  re- 
gretted, from  the  belief  that  it  might  have  been  useful  to 
others.  Perhaps,  however,  it  will  be  better  that  each  one 
should  learn  these  lessons  for  himself.  There  is  a  sensation 
of  novelty  which,  in  the  most  embarrassing  situations,  pro- 
duces a  desperate  kind  of  enjoyment,  and,  in  addition  to 
this,  the  sufferer's  sympathies  for  humanity  are  very  much 
deepened  and  enlarged  by  an  acquaintance  with  its  trials. 

In  preparing  the  present  edition  of  his  book  the  author 
at  first  contemplated  a  complete  revision.  The  fact  that 
seven  editions  had  been  sold  in  a  year  and  a  half  from  the 
publication  seemed  to  require  that  he  should  make  such 
improvements  as  his  riper  judgment  suggested,  and  which 
should  render  it  more  worthy  of  so  extensive  a  circulation. 
But  further  reflection  convinced  him  that  it  would  be  best 
to  make  little  change.  It  was  written  during  his  wander- 
ings— partly  by  the  wayside  when  resting  at  midday,  and 
partly  on  the  rough  tables  of  peasant-inns,  in  the  stillness 
of  deserted  ruins  or  amid  the  sublime  solitude  of  the  moun- 
tain-top.    It  thus  reflects  faithfully  the  impress  of  his  own 


TO  THE  READER.  7 

mind  in  every  part  of  the  journey,  and  he  would  prefer 
that  it  should  remain  a  boyish  work,  however  lacking  in 
finish  of  composition,  rather  than  risk  taking  away  what- 
ever spirit  it  may  have  caught  from  nature.  Some  particu- 
lars which  have  been  desired  by  persons  about  to  undertake 
a  similar  journey,  and  which  may  be  generally  interesting, 
have  been  given  in  a  new  chapter  at  the  close.  With  this 
addition,  and  that  of  a  sketch  illustrating  the  costume  of  a 
pedestrian,  which  has  been  made  by  a  poet  and  artist 
friend,  the  work  is  again  given  to  the  public.  The  author 
may  hereafter  be  better  able  to  deserve  their  commendation. 
His  wanderings  are  not  yet  over.         • 

New  York,  August,  1S48. 


PRE  FAO  E  . 

BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


The  book  which  follows  requires  little  or  no  introduc- 
tion. It  tells  its  own  story,  and  tells  it  well.  The  interest 
in  it  which  induces  the  writer  of  this  preface  to  be  its  usher 
to  the  public  is  simply  that  of  his  having  chanced  to  be 
among  the  first  appreciators  of  the  author's  talent — an  ap- 
preciation that  has  since  been  so  more  than  justified  that 
the  writer  is  proud  to  call  the  author  of  this  book  his 
friend,  and  bespeak  attention  to  the  peculiar  energies  he 
has  displayed  in  travel  and  authorship.  Mr.  Taylor's  poet- 
ical productions  while  he  was  still  a  printer's  apprentice 
made  a  strong  impression  on  the  writer's  mind,  and  he 
gave  them  their  due  of  praise  accordingly  in  the  newspaper 
of  which  he  was  then  editor.  Some  correspondence  ensued, 
and  other  fine  pieces  of  writing  strengthened  the  admira- 
tion thus  awakened  ;  and  when  the  young  poet-mechanic 
came  to  the  city  and  modestly  announced  the  bold  determi- 
nation of  visiting  foreign  lands — with  means,  if  they  could 
be  got,  but  with  reliance  on  manual  labor  if  they  could 
not — the  writer,  understanding  the  man,  and  seeing  how 
capable  he  was  of  carrying  out  his  manly  and  enthusiastic 
scheme,  and  that  it  would  work  uncorruptingly  for  the  im- 
provement of  his  mind  and  character,  counselled  him  to  go. 
He  went :  his  book  tells  how  successfully  for  all  his  pur- 
poses. He  has  returned,  after  two  years'  absence,  with 
lame  knowledge  of  the  world  of  men  and  of  manners,  with 
a  pure,  invigorated  and  healthy  mind,  having  passed  all 

9 


10  PKEFACE. 

this  time  abroad,  and  seen  and  accomplished  more  than 
most  travellers,  at  a  cost  of  only  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
this  sum  earned  on  the  road.  This,  in  the  writer's  opin- 
ion, is  a  fine  instance  of  character  and  energy.  The  book 
which  records  the  difficulties  and  struggles  of  a  printer's 
apprentice  achieving  this  must  be  interesting  to  Americans. 
The  pride  of  the  country  is  in  its  self-made  men. 

What  Mr.  Taylor  is,  or  what  he  is  yet  to  become,  cannot 
well  be  touched  upon  here,  but  that  it  will  yet  be  written, 
and  on  a  bright  page,  is,  of  course,  his  own  confident  hope 
and  the  writer's  confident  expectation.  The  book  which  is 
the  record  of  his  progress  thus  far  is  now  cordially  com- 
mended to  the  public,  and  it  will  be  read,  perhaps,  more 
understanding^  after  a  perusal  of  the  following  outline 
sketch  of  the  difficulties  the  author  had  to  contend  with — a 
letter  written  in  reply  to  a  note  from  the  writer  asking  for 
some  of  the  particulars  of  his  start  and  progress : 

To  Mr.  Willis— 

My  Dear  Sir  :  Nearly  three  years  ago  (in  the  begin- 
ning of  1844)  the  time  for  accomplishing  my  long-cherished 
desire  of  visiting  Europe  seemed  to  arrive.  A  cousin  who 
had  long  intended  going  abroad  wTas  to  leave  in  a  few 
months,  and,  although  I  was  then  surrounded  by  the  most 
unfavorable  circumstances,  I  determined  to  accompany  him, 
at  whatever  hazard.  I  had  still  two  years  of  my  appren- 
ticeship to  serve  out ;  I  was  entirely  without  means,  and 
my  project  was  strongly  opposed  by  my  friends  as  some- 
thing too  visionary  to  be  practicable.  A  short  time  before, 
Mr.  Griswold  advised  me  to  publish  a  small  volume  of 
youthful  effusions,  a  few  of  which  had  appeared  in  Gra- 
ham's Magazine,  which  he  then  edited  ;  the  idea  struck  me 
that  by  so  doing  I  might,  if  they  should  be  favorably  no- 
ticed, obtain  a  newspaper  correspondence  which  would 
enable  me  to  make  the  start. 

The  volume  was  published ;  a  sufficient  number  was  sold 


PREFACE.  ]  1 

among  my  friends  to  defray  all  expenses,  and  it  was  chari- 
tably noticed  by  the  Philadelphia  press.  Some  literary 
friends  to  whom  I  confided  my  design  promised  to  aid  me 
with  their  influence.  Trusting  to  this,  I  made  arrangements 
for  leaving  the  printing-office,  which  I  succeeded  in  doing 
by  making  a  certain  compensation  for  the  remainder  of  my 
time.  I  was  now  fully  confident  of  success,  feeling  satisfied 
that  a  strong  will  would  always  make  itself  a  way.  After 
many  applications  to  different  editors  and  as  many  disap- 
pointments, I  finally  succeeded,  about  two  weeks  before  our 
departure,  in  making  a  partial  engagement.  Mr.  Chandler 
of  the  United  States  Gazette  and  Mr.  Patterson  of  the  Sat- 
urday Evening  Post  paid  me  fifty  dollars,  each,  in  advance 
for  twelve  letters,  to  be  sent  from  Europe,  with  the  proba- 
bility of  accepting  more  if  these  should  be  satisfactory. 
This,  with  a  sum  which  I  received  from  Mr.  Graham  for 
poems  published  in  his  magazine,  put  me  in  possession  of 
about  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars,  with  which  I  determined 
to  start,  trusting  to  future  remuneration  for  letters,  or  if 
that  should  fail,  to  my  skill  as  a  compositor,  for  I  supposed 
I  could  at  the  worst,  work  my  way  through  Europe,  like 
the  German  hand  worker.  Thus,  with  another  companion, 
we  left  home,  an  enthusiastic  and  hopeful  trio. 

I  need  not  trace  our  wanderings  at  length.  After  eight 
months  of  suspense,  during  which  time  my  small  means 
were  entirely  exhausted,  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Pat- 
terson, continuing  the  engagement  for  the  remainder  of  my 
stav,  with  a  remittance  of  one  hundred  dollars  from  him- 
self and  Mr.  Graham.  Other  remittances,  received  from 
time  to  time,  enabled  me  to  stay  abroad  two  years,  during 
which  I  travelled  on  foot  upward  of  three  thousand  miles 
in  Germany,  Switzerland,  Italy  and  France.  I  was  obliged, 
however,  to  use  the  strictest  economy — to  live  on  pilgrim 
fare  and  do  penance  in  rain  and  cold.  My  means  several 
times  entirely  failed  ;  but  I  was  always  relieved  from  seri- 
ous difficulty  through  unlooked-for  friends  or  some  unex- 


12  PREFACE. 

pected  turn  of  fortune.  At  Rome,  owing  to  the  expenses 
and  embarrassments  of  travelling  in  Italy,  I  was  obliged  to 
give  up  my  original  design  of  proceeding  on  foot  to  Naples 
and  across  the  peninsula  to  Otranto,  sailing  thence  to  Corfu 
and  making  a  pedestrian  journey  through  Albania  and 
Greece.  But  the  main  object  of  my  pilgrimage  is  accom- 
plished. I  visited  the  principal  places  of  interest  in  Europe, 
enjoyed  her  grandest  scenery  and  the  marvels  of  ancient 
and  modern  art,  became  familiar  with  other  languages, 
other  customs  and  other  institutions,  and  returned  home, 
after  two  years'  absence,  willing  now,  with  satisfied  curiosity, 
to  resume  life  in  America. 

Yours,  most  sincerely, 

J.  Bayard  Taylor. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I— The  Voyage 15 

II.— A  Day  in  Ireland 22 

III. — Ben  Lomond  and  the  Highland  Lakes 27 

IV— The  Burns  Festival 38 

V. — Walk  from  Edinburgh  over  the  Border,  and  Arrival  at 

London 45 

VI.— Some  of  the  "Sights"  of  London 55 

VII.— Flight  through  Belgium 64 

VIII.— The  Rhine  to  Heidelberg 70 

IX. — Scenes  In  and  Around  Heidelberg 76 

X— A  Walk  through  the  Odenwald 86 

XL — Scenes  in  Frankfort. — An  American  Composer. — The 

Poet  Freiligrath 92 

XII. — A  Week  among  the  Students 101 

XIII. — Christmas  and  New  Year  in  Germany 108 

XIV. — Winter  in  Frankfort. — A  Fair,  an  Inundation  and  a 

Fire 113 

XV.— The  Dead  and  the  Deaf. — Mendelssohn  the  Composer  .  124 

XVI. — Journey  on  Foot  from  Frankfort  to  Cassel 129 

XVII. — Adventures  among  the  Hartz 136 

XVIII. — Notes  in  Leipsic  and  Dresden 147 

XIX. — Rambles  in  the  Saxon  Switzerland 157 

XX. — Scenes  in  Prague 166 

XXL — Journey  through  Eastern  Bohemia  and  Moravia  to  the 

Danube 172 

XXIL— Vienna 180 

XXIII.-Up  the  Danube 197 

XXIV —The  Unknown  Student 204 

XXV— The  Austrian  Alps 207 

XXVI—  Munich     217 

13 


14  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVII.— Through  Wurtemberg  to  Heidelberg 231 

XXVIII— Freiburg  and  the  Black  Forest 240 

XXIX. — People  and  Places  in  Eastern  Switzerland  ....  249 
XXX. — Passage  of  the  St.  Gothard  and  Descent  into  Italy  .  259 

XXXI.— Milan     271 

XXXII.— Walk  from  Milan  to,  Genoa 277 

XXXIIL— Scenes  in  Genoa,  Leghorn  and  Pisa 283 

XXXIV.— Florence  and  its  Galleries 294 

XXXV.— A  Pilgrimage  to  Vallombrosa 307 

XXXVI.— Walk  to  Siena  and  Pratolino.— Incidents  in  Flor- 
ence      314 

XXXVII.— American  Art  in  Florence 327 

XXXVIII.— An  Adventure  on  the  Great  St.  Bernard.— Walks 

around  Florence 335 

XXXIX.— Winter-Travelling  among  the  Apennines   ....  344 

XL. — Rome      355 

XLI. — Tivoli  and  the  Roman  Campagna 371 

XLII. — Tivoli  and  the  Roman  Campagna  (continued)  .  .  .  380 
XLIII. — Pilgrimage  to  Vaucluse  and  Journey  up  the  Rhone  386 
XLIV. — Travelling    in    Burgundy.  —  The   Miseries   of   a 

Country  Diligence   . 399 

XLV. — Poetical  Scenes  in  Paris 406 

XL VI. — A  Glimpse  of  Normandy 414 

XLVIL — Lockhart,  Bernard   Barton  and  Croly.  —  London 

Chimes  and  Greenwich  Fair 418 

XLVIII. — Homeward  Bound.— Conclusion 427 

XLIX. — Advice  and  Information  for  Pedestrians 437 


VIEWS   A-FOOT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    VOYAGE. 


An  enthusiastic  desire  of  visiting  the  Old  World  haunted 
me  from  early  childhood.  I  cherished  a  presentiment, 
amounting  almost  to  belief,  that  I  should  one  day  behold 
the  scenes  among  which  my  fancy  had  so  long  wandered. 
The  want  of  means  was  for  a  time  a  serious  check  to  my 
anticipations,  but  I  could  not  content  myself  to  wait  until 
I  had  slowly  accumulated  so  large  a  sum  as  tourists  usually 
spend  on  their  travels.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  more  hum- 
ble method  of  seeing  the  world  would  place  within  the 
power  of  almost  every  one  what  has  hitherto  been  deemed 
the  privilege  of  the  wealthy  few.  Such  a  journey,  too,  of- 
fered advantages  for  becoming  acquainted  with  people  as 
well  as  places — for  observing  more  intimately  the  effect  of 
government  and  education,  and,  more  than  all,  for  the  study 
of  human  nature,  in  every  condition  of  life.  At  length  I 
became  possessed  of  a  small  sum,  to  be  earned  by  letters 
descriptive  of  things  abroad,  and  on  the  1st  of  July,  1844, 
set  sail  for  Liverpool,  with  a  relative  and  friend  whose  cir- 
cumstances were  somewhat  similar  to  mine.  How  far  the 
success  of  the  experiment  and  the  object  of  our  long  pil- 
grimage were  attained  these  pages  will  show. 

LAND  AND  SEA. 

There  are  springs  that  rise  in  the  greenwood's  heart, 
Where  its  leafy  glooms  are  cast, 

15 


1G  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

And  the  branches  droop  in  the  solemn  air, 

Unstirred  by  the  sweeping  blast. 
There  are  hills  that  lie  in  the  noontide  calm, 

On  the  lap  of  the  quiet  earth  ; 
And,  crown'd  with  gold  by  the  ripened  grain, 

Surround  rny  place  of  birth. 

Dearer  are  these  to  my  pining  heart 

Than  the  beauty  of  the  deep, 
When  the  moonlight  falls  in  a  belt  of  gold 

On  the  waves  that  heave  in  sleep. 
The  rustling  talk  of  the  clustered  leaves 

That  shade  a  well-known  door 
Is  sweeter  far  than  the  booming  sound 

Of  the  breaking  wave  before. 

When  night  on  the  ocean  sinks  calmly  down, 

I  climb  the  vessel's  prow, 
Where  the  foam-wreath  glows  with  its  phosphor  light 

Like  a  crown  on  a  sea-nymph's  brow. 
Above,  through  the  lattice  of  rope  and  spar, 

The  stars  in  their  beauty  burn, 
And  the  spirit  longs  to  ride  their  beams, 

And  back  to  the  loved  return. 

They  say  that  the  sunset  is  brighter  far 

When  it  sinks  behind  the  sea — 
That  the  stars  shine  out  with  a  softer  fire : 

Not  thus  they  seem  to  me. 
Dearer  the  flush  of  the  crimson  west 

Through  trees  that  my  childhood  knew, 
When  the  star  of  love,  with  its  silver  lamp, 

Lights  the  homes  of  the  tried  and  true  ! 

Could  one  live  on  the  sense  of  beauty  alone,  exempt  from 
the  necessity  of  "  creature  comforts,"  a  sea-voyage  would  be 
delightful.  To  the  landsman  there  is  sublimity  in  the  wild 
and  ever-varied  forms  of  the  ocean ;  they  fill  his  mind  with 
living  images  of  a  glory  he  had  only  dreamed  of  before. 
But  we  would  have  been  willing  to  forego  all  this  and  get 
back  the  comforts  of  the  shore.  At  New  York  we  took 
passage  in  the  second  cabin  of  the  Oxford,  which,  as  usual 


ON  THE  ATLANTIC.  17 

in  the  Liverpool  packets,  consisted  of  a  small  space  amid- 
ships, fitted  up  with  rough,  temporary  berths.  The  com- 
munication with  the  deck  is  by  an  open  hatchway  which  in 
storms  is  closed  down.  As  the  passengers  in  this  cabin  fur- 
nish their  own  provisions,  we  made  ourselves  acquainted 
with  the  contents  of  certain  storehouses  on  Pine  street 
wharf,  and  purchased  a  large  box  of  provisions,  which  was 
stowed  away  under  our  narrow  berth.  The  cook,  for  a 
small  compensation,  took  on  himself  the  charge  of  prepar- 
ing them,  and  we  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  the  close, 
dark  dwelling  would  admit. 

As  we  approached  the  Banks  of  Newfoundland  a  gale 
arose  which  for  two  days  and  nights  carried  us  on,  career- 
ing Mazeppa-like,  up  hill  and  down.  The  sea  looked  truly 
magnificent,  although  the  sailors  told  us  it  was  nothing  at 
all  in  comparison  with  the  storms  of  winter.  But  we  were 
not  permitted  to  pass  the  Banks  without  experiencing  one 
of  the  calms  for  which  that  neighborhood  is  noted.  For 
three  days  we  lay  almost  motionless  on  the  glassy  water, 
sometimes  surrounded  by  large  flocks  of  sea-gulls.  The 
weed  brought  by  the  Gulf  Stream  floated  around.  Some 
branches  we  fished  up  were  full  of  beautiful  little  shells. 
Once  a  large  school  of  blackfish  came  around  the  vessel, 
and  the  carpenter  climbed  down  on  the  fore-chains  with  a 
harpoon  to  strike  one.  Scarcely  had  he  taken  his  position, 
when  they  all  darted  off  in  a  straight  line  through  the 
water,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight.  He  said  they  smelt  the 
harpoon. 

We  congratulated  ourselves  on  having  reached  the  Banks 
in  seven  days,  as  it  is  considered  the  longest  third  part  of 
the  passage.  But  the  hopes  of  reaching  Liverpool  in  twenty 
days  were  soon  overthrown.  A  succession  of  southerly 
winds  drove  the  vessel  as  far  north  as  latitude  fifty-five  de- 
grees, without  bringing  us  much  nearer  our  destination.  It 
was  extremely  cold,  for  we  were  but  five  degrees  south  of 
the  latitude  of  Greenland,  and  the  long  Northern  twilights 

2 


18  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

came  on.  The  last  glow  of  the  evening  twilight  had  scarcely 
faded  before  the  first  glimmering  of  dawn  appeared.  I 
found  it  extremely  easy  to  read  at  ten  p.  M.  on  the  deck. 

We  had  much  diversion  on  board  from  a  company  of 
Iowa  Indians  under  the  celebrated  chief  White  Cloud,  who 
are  on  a  visit  to  England.  They  are  truly  a  wild-enough 
looking  company,  and  helped  not  a  little  to  relieve  the  te- 
dium of  the  passage.  The  chief  was  a  very  grave  and  dig- 
nified person,  but  some  of  the  braves  were  merry  enough. 
One  day  we  had  a  war-dance  on  deck,  which  was  a  most 
ludicrous  scene.  The  chief  and  two  braves  sat  upon  the 
deck  beating  violently  a  small  drum  and  howling  forth 
their  war-song,  while  the  others  in  full-dress,  painted  in  a 
grotesque  style,  leaped  about,  brandishing  tomahawks  and 
spears,  and  terminating  each  dance  with  a  terrific  yell. 
Some  of  the  men  are  very  fine-looking,  but  the  squaws  are 
all  ugly.  They  occupied  part  of  the  second  cabin,  sepa- 
rated only  by  a  board  partition  from  our  room.  This  prox- 
imity was  anything  but  agreeable.  They  kept  us  awake 
more  than  half  the  night  by  singing  and  howling  in  the 
most  dolorous  manner,  with  the  accompaniment  of  slapping 
their  hands  violently  on  their  bare  breasts.  We  tried  an 
opposition,  and  a  young  German  student  who  was  returning 
home  after  two  years'  travel  in  America  made  our  room 
ring  with  the  chorus  from  Der  Freischiitz  ;  but  in  vain. 
They  would  howl  and  beat  their  breasts,  and  the  pappoose 
would  squall.  Any  loss  of  temper  is  therefore  not  to  be 
wondered  at  when  I  state  that  I  could  scarcely  turn  in  my 
berth,  much  less  stretch  myself  out ;  my  cramped  limbs 
alone  drove  off  half  the  night's  slumber. 

It  was  a  pleasure,  at  least,  to  gaze  on  their  strong  athletic 
frames.  Their  massive  chests  and  powerful  limbs  put  to 
shame  our  dwindled  proportions.  One  old  man  in  particu- 
lar, who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  the  band,  used  to  stand 
for  hours  on  the  quarter  deck  sublime  and  motionless  as  a 
statue  of  Jupiter.     An  interesting  incident  occurred  during 


FIKST  SIGHT  OF  LAND.  19 

the  calm  of  which  I  spoke.  They  began  to  be  fearful  we 
were  doomed  to  remain  there  for  ever  unless  the  spirits  were 
invoked  for  a  favorable  wind.  Accordingly  the  prophet  lit 
his  pipe  and  smoked  with  great  deliberation,  muttering  all 
the  while  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  having  obtained  a  bottle 
of  heer  from  the  captain,  he  poured  it  solemnly  over  the 
stern  of  the  vessel  into  the  sea.  There  were  some  indica- 
tions of  wind  at  the  time,  and  accordingly  the*  next  morn- 
ing we  had  a  fine  breeze,  which  the  Iowas  attributed  solely 
to  the  prophet's  incantation  and  Eolus's  love  of  beer. 

After  a  succession  of  calms  and  adverse  winds,  on  the 
25th  we  were  off  the  Hebrides,  and,  though  not  within  sight 
of  land,  the  southern  winds  came  to  us  strongly  freighted 
with  the  "  meadow  freshness  "  of  the  Irish  bogs,  so  we  could 
at  least  smell  it.  That  day  the  wind  became  more  favor- 
able, and  the  next  morning  we  were  all  roused  out  of  our 
berths  by  sunrise  at  the  long-wished-for  cry  of "  Land !" 
Just  under  the  golden  flood  of  light  that  streamed  through 
the  morning  clouds  lay  afar  off  and  indistinct  the  crags  of 
an  island  with  the  top  of  a  lighthouse  visible  at  one  extrem- 
ity. To  the  south  of  it,  and  barely  distinguishable,  so  com- 
pletely was  it  blended  in  hue  with  the  veiling  cloud,  loomed 
up  a  lofty  mountain.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sight.  As 
we  drew  nearer,  the  dim  and  soft  outline  it  first  wore  was 
broken  into  a  range  of  crags  with  lofty  precipices  jutting 
out  to  the  sea  and  sloping  off  inland.  The  white  wall  of 
the  lighthouse  shone  in  the  morning's  light,  and  the  foam 
of  the  breakers  dashed  up  at  the  foot  of  the  airy  cliffs.  It 
was  worth  all  the  troubles  of  a  long  voyage  to  feel  the  glo- 
rious excitement  which  this  herald  of  new  scenes  and  new 
adventures  created.  The  lighthouse  was  on  Tory  Island, 
on  the  north-western  coast  of  Ireland.  The  captain  decided 
on  taking  the  North  Channel,  for,  although  rarely  done,  it 
was  in  our  case  nearer,  and  is  certainly  more  interesting 
than  the  usual  route. 

We  passed  the  island  of  Ennistrahul,  near  the  entrance 


20  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  Londonderry  harbor,  and  at  sunset  saw  in  the  distance 
the  islands  of  Islay  and  Jura,  off  the  Scottish  coast.  Next 
morning  we  were  close  to  the  promontory  of  Fairhead,  a 
bold,  precipitous  headland,  like  some  of  the  Palisades  on 
the  Hudson  ;  the  highlands  of  the  Mull  of  Cantire  were  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  Channel,  and,  the  wind  being  ahead, 
we  tacked  from  shore  to  shore,  running  so  near  the  Irish 
coast  that  We  could  see  the  little  thatched  huts,  stacks  of 
peat,  and  even  rows  of  potatoes  in  the  fields.  It  was  a  pan- 
orama :  the  view  extended  for  miles  inland,  and  the  fields 
of  different-colored  grain  were  spread  out  before  us,  a  bril- 
liant mosaic.  Toward  evening  we  passed  Ailsa  Crag,  the 
sea-bird's  home,  within  sight,  though  about  twenty  miles 
distant. 

On  Sunday,  the  28th,  we  passed  the  lofty  headland  of 
the  Mull  of  Galloway  and  entered  the  Irish  Sea.  Here 
there  was  an  occurrence  of  an  impressive  nature.  A  wo- 
man belonging  to  the  steerage  who  had  been  ill  the  whole 
passage  died  the  morning  before.  She  appeared  to  be  of  a 
very  avaricious  disposition,  though  this  might  indeed  have 
been  the  result  of  self-denial  practised  through  filial  affec- 
tion. In  the  morning  she  was  speechless,  and  wdiile  they 
were  endeavoring  to  persuade  her  to  give  up  her  keys  to 
the  captain  died.  In  her  pocket  were  found  two  parcels 
containing  forty  sovereigns  sewed  up  with  the  most  miserly 
care.  It  was  ascertained  she  had  a  widowed  mother  in  the 
North  of  Ireland,  and,  judging  her  money  could  be  better 
applied  than  to  paying  for  a  funeral  on  shore,  the  captain 
gave  orders  for  committing  the  body  to  the  waves.  It  rained 
drearily  as  her  corpse,  covered  with  starred  bunting,  was 
held  at  the  gangway  while  the  captain  read  the  funeral  ser- 
vice ;  then  one  plunge  was  heard,  and  a  white  object 
flashed  up  through  the  dark  waters  as  the  ship  passed  on. 

In  the  afternoon  we  passed  the  Isle  of  Man,  having  a 
beautiful  view  of  the  Calf,  with  a  white  stream  tumbling 
down  the  rocks  into  the  sea,  and  at  night  saw  the  sun  set 


A  SCENE  OF  CONFUSION.  21 

behind  the  mountains  of  Wales.  About  midnight  the  pilot 
came  on  board,  and  soon  after  sunrise  I  saw  the  distant 
spires  of  Liverpool.  The  Welsh  coast  was  studded  with 
windmills,  all  in  motion,  and  the  harbor  spotted  with  buoys, 
bells  and  floating  lights.  How  delightful  it  was  to  behold 
the  green  trees  on  the  banks  of  the  Mersey,  and  to  know 
that  in  a  few  hours  we  should  be  on  land !  About  eleven 
o'clock  we  came  to  anchor  in  the  channel  of  the  Mersey,  near 
the  docks,  and  after  much  noise,  bustle  and  confusion  were 
transferred,  with  our  baggage,  to  a  small  steamboat,  giving 
a  parting  cheer  to  the  Iowas,  who  remained  on  board.  On 
landing,  I  stood  a  moment  to  observe  the  scene.  The  bag- 
gage-wagons, drawn  by  horses,  mules  and  donkeys,  were 
extraordinary;  men  were  going  about  crying  "  The  celebrated 
Tralorum  gingerbread!"  which  they  carried  in  baskets,  and 
a  boy  in  the  university  dress,  with  long  blue  gown  and  yel- 
low knee-breeches,  was  running  to  the  wharf  to  look  at  the 
Indians. 

At  last  the  carts  were  all  loaded,  the  word  was  given  to 
start,  and  then  what  a  scene  ensued  !  Away  went  the  mules, 
the  horses  and  the  donkeys  ;  away  ran  men  and  women  and 
children,  carrying  chairs  and  trunks,  and  boxes  and  bed- 
ding. The  wind  was  blowing  and  the  dust  whirled  up  as 
they  dashed  helter-skelter  through  the  gate  and  started  off 
on  a  hot  race  down  the  dock  to  the  depot.  Two  wagons 
came  together,  one  of  which  was  overturned,  scattering  the 
broken  boxes  of  a  Scotch  family  over  the  pavement ;  but 
while  the  poor  woman  was  crying  over  her  loss  the  tide 
swept  on,  scarcely  taking  time  to  glance  at  the  mishap. 

Our  luggage  was  "  passed  "  with  little  trouble,  the  officer 
merely  opening  the  trunks  and  pressing  his  hands  on  the 
top.  Even  some  American  reprints  of  English  works  which 
my  companion  carried,  and  feared  would  be  taken  from  him, 
were  passed  over  without  a  word.  I  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised at  this,  as,  from  the  accounts  of  some  travellers,  I  had 
been  led  to  fear  horrible  things  of  custom-houses.     This 


22  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

over,  we  took  a  stroll  about  the  city.  I  was  first  struck  by 
seeing  so  many  people  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  streets, 
and  so  many  gentlemen  going  about  with  pinks  stuck  in 
their  buttonholes.  Then,  the  houses  being  all  built  of  brown 
granite  or  dark  brick  gives  the  town  a  sombre  appearance, 
which  the  sunshine  (when  there  is  any)  cannot  dispel.  Of 
Liverpool  we  saw  little.  Before  the  twilight  had  wholly 
faded,  we  were  again  tossing  on  the  rough  waves  of  the 
Irish  Sea. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A     DAY    IN    IRELAND. 


On  calling  at  the  steamboat-office  in  Liverpool  to  take 
passage  to  Port  Rush,  we  found  that  the  fare  in  the  fore 
cabin  was  but  two  shillings  and  a  half,  while  in  the  chief 
cabin  it  was  six  times  as  much.  As  I  had  started  to  make 
the  tour  of  all  Europe  with  a  sum  little  higher  than  is  some- 
times given  for  the  mere  passage  to  and  fro,  there  was  no 
alternative,  the  twenty-four  hours'  discomfort  could  be  more 
easily  endured  than  the  expense,  and,  as  I  expected  to  en- 
counter many  hardships,  it  was  best  to  make  a  beginning. 
I  had  crossed  the  ocean  with  tolerable  comfort  for  twenty- 
four  dollars,  and  was  determined  to  try  whether  England, 
where  I  had  been  told  it  was  almost  impossible  to  breathe 
without  expense,  might  not  also  be  seen  by  one  of  limited 
means. 

The  fore  cabin  was  merely  a  bare  room  with  a  bench 
along  one  side,  which  was  occupied  by  half  a  dozen  Irish- 
men in  knee-breeches  and  heavy  brogans.  As  we  passed 
out  of  the  Clarence  Dock  at  10  P.  M.  I  went  below,  and 
managed  to  get  a  seat  on  one  end  of  the  bench,  where  I 
spent  the  night  in  sleepless  misery.     The  Irish  bestowed 


DISAGREEABLE  WEATHER.  23 

themselves  about  the  floor  as  they  best  could,  for  there  was 
no  light,  and  very  soon  the  Morphean  deepness  of  their 
breathing  gave  token  of  blissful  unconsciousness. 

The  next  morning  was  misty  and  rainy,  but  I  preferred 
walking  the  deck  and  drying  myself  occasionally  beside  the 
chimney  to  sitting  in  the  dismal  room  below.  We  passed 
the  Isle  of  Man,  and  through  the  whole  forenoon  were 
tossed  about  very  disagreeably  in  the  North  Channel.  In 
the  afternoon  we  stopped  at  Larne,  a  little  antiquated  vil- 
lage not  far  from  Belfast,  at  the  head  of  a  crooked  arm  of 
the  sea.  There  is  an  old  ivy-grown  tower  near,  and  high 
green  mountains  rise  up  around.  After  leaving  it  we  had 
a  beautiful  panoramic  view  of  the  northern  coast.  Many 
of  the  precipices  are  of  the  same  formation  as  the  Cause- 
way ;  Fairhead,  a  promontory  of  this  kind,  is  grand  in  the 
extreme.  The  perpendicular  face  of  fluted  rock  is  about 
three  hundred  feet  in  height,  and,  towering  up  sublimely 
from  the  water,  seemed  almost  to  overhang  our  heads.  My 
companion  compared  it  to  Niagara  Falls  petrified,  and  I 
think  the  simile  very  striking.  It  is  like  a  cataract  falling 
in  huge  waves,  in  some  places  leaping  out  from  a  projecting 
rock,  in  others  descending  in  an  unbroken  sheet. 

We  passed  the  Giant's  Causeway  after  dark,  and  about 
eleven  o'clock  reached  the  harbor  of  Port  Rush,  where, 
after  stumbling  up  a  strange  old  street  in  the  dark,  we 
found  a  little  inn,  and  soon  forgot  the  Irish  coast  and  every- 
thing else. 

In  the  morning,  when  we  arose,  it  was  raining,  with  little 
prospect  of  fair  weather,  but,  having  expected  nothing 
better,  we  set  out  on  foot  for  the  Causeway.  .  The  rain, 
however,  soon  came  down  in  torrents,  and  we  were  obliged 
to  take  shelter  in  a  cabin  by  the  roadside.  The  whole 
house  consisted  of  one  room  with  bare  walls  and  roof  and 
earthen  floor,  while  a  window  of  three  or  four  panes  sup- 
plied the  light.  A  fire  of  peat  was  burning  on  the  hearth, 
and  their  breakfast,  of  potatoes  alone,  stood  on  the  table. 


24  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

The  occupants  received  us  with  rude  but  genuine  hospi- 
tality, giving  us  the  only  seats  in  the  room  to  sit  upon  ;  ex- 
cept a  rickety  bedstead  that  stood  in  one  corner  and  a 
small  table,  there  was  no  other  furniture  in  the  house. 
The  man  appeared  rather  intelligent,  and,  although  he  com- 
plained of  the  hardness  of  their  lot,  had  no  sympathy  with 
O'Connell  or  the  Repeal  movement. 

We  left  this  miserable  hut  as  soon  as  it  ceased  raining, 
and,  though  there  were  many  cabins  along  the  road,  few 
were  better  than  this.     At  length,  after  passing  the  walls 
of  an  old  church  in  the  midst  of  older  tombs,  we  saw  the 
roofless  towers   of  Dunluce   Castle   on   the  seashore.     It 
stands  on  an  isolated  rock,  rising  perpendicularly  two  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea,  and  connected  with  the  cliffs  of  the 
mainland  by  a  narrow  arch  of  masonry.     On  the  summit 
of  the  cliffs  were  the  remains  of  the  buildings  where  the 
ancient  lords  kept  their  vassals.     An  old  man  who  takes 
care  of  it  for  Lord  Antrim,  on  whose  property  it  is  situated, 
showed  us  the  way  down  to  the  castle.     We  walked  across 
the  narrow  arch,  entered  the  ruined  hall  and  looked  down 
on  the  roaring  sea  below.     It  still  rained  ;  the  wind  swept 
furiously  through  the  decaying  arches  of  the  banqUeting- 
hall  and  waved  the  long  grass  on  the  desolate  battlements. 
Far  below  the  sea  foamed  white  on  the  breakers  and  sent 
up  an  unceasing  boom.     It  was  the  most  mournful  and 
desolate  picture  I  ever  beheld.     There  were  some  low  dun- 
geons yet  entire,  and  rude  stairways  where  by  stooping 
down  I  could  ascend  nearly  to  the  top  of  one  of  the  towers 
and  look  out  on  the  wild  scenery  of  the  coast. 

Going  back,  I  found  a  way  down  the  cliff  to  the  mouth 
of  a  cavern  in  the  rock  which  extends  under  the  whole 
castle  to  the  sea.  Sliding  down  a  heap  of  sand  and  stones, 
I  stood  under  an  arch  eighty  feet  high  ;  in  front  the  break- 
ers dashed  into  the  entrance,  flinging  the  spray  halfway  to 
the  roof,  while  the  sound  rang  up  through  the  arches  like 


THE  ABODE  OF  THE  GIANTS.  25 

thunder.  It  seemed  to  me  the  haunt  of  the  old  Norsemen's 
sea-gods. 

We  left  the  road  near  Dun  luce  and  walked  along  the 
smooth  beach  to  the  cliffs  that  surround  the  Causeway. 
Here  we  obtained  a  guide,  and  descended  to  one  of  the 
caves  which  can  be  entered  from  the  shore.  Opposite  the 
entrance  a  bare  rock  called  Sea  Gull  Isle  rises  out  of  the 
sea  like  a  church-steeple.  The  roof  at  first  was  low,  but 
we  shortly  came  to  a  branch  that  opened  on  the  sea,  where 
the  arch  was  forty-six  feet  in  height.  The  breakers  dashed 
far  into  the  cave,  and  flocks  of  sea-birds  circled  round  its 
mouth.  The  sound  of  a  gun  was  like  a  deafening  peal 
of  thunder,  crashing  from  arch  to  arch  till  it  rolled  out  of 
the  cavern. 

On  the  top  of  the  hill  a  splendid  hotel  is  erected  for  visi- 
tors to  the  Causeway  ;  after  passing  this  we  descended  to 
the  base  of  the  cliffs,  which  are  here  upward  of  four  hun- 
dred feet  high,  and  soon  began  to  find  in  the  columnar  for- 
mation of  the  rocks  indications  of  our  approach.  The 
guide  pointed  out  some  columns  which  appeared  to  have 
been  melted  and  run  together,  from  which  Sir  Humphry 
Davy  attributed  the  formation  of  the  Causeway  to  the 
action  of  fire.  Near  this  is  the  Giants'  Well,  a  spring  of 
the  purest  water,  the  bottom  formed  by  three  perfect  hexa- 
gons and  the  sides  of  regular  columns.  One  of  us  observ- 
ing that  no  giant  had  ever  drunk  from  it,  the  old  man  an- 
swered, "  Perhaps  not,  but  it  was  made  by  a  giant — God 
almighty !" 

From  the  well  the  Causeway  commences — a  mass  of  col- 
umns from  triangular  to  octagonal,  lying  in  compact  forms 
and  extending  into  the  sea.  I  was  somewhat  disappointed 
at  first,  having  supposed  the  Causeway  to  be  of  great 
height,  but  I  found  the  Giant's  Loom,  which  is  the  highest 
part  of  it,  to  be  but  about  fifty  feet  from  the  water.  The 
singular  appearance  of  the  columns  and  the  many  strange 
forms  which  they  assume  render  it,  nevertheless,  an  object 


26  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  the  greatest  interest.  Walking  out  on  the  rocks,  we 
came  to  the  Ladies'  Chair,  the  seat,  back,  sides  and  foot- 
stool being  all  regularly  formed  by  the  broken  columns. 
The  guide  said  that  any  lady  "who  would  take  three 
drinks  from  the  Giant's  Well,  then  sit  in  this  chair  and 
think  of  any  gentleman  for  whom  she  had  a  preference, 
would  be  married  before  a  twelvemonth.  I  asked  him  if  it 
would  answer  as  well  for  gentlemen,  for  by  a  wonderful 
coincidence  we  had  each  drank  three  times  at  the  well. 
He  said  it  would,  and  thought  he  was  confirming  his  state- 
ment. 

A  cluster  of  columns  about  half-way  up  the  cliff  is  called 
the  Giant's  Organ  from  its  very  striking  resemblance  to 
that  instrument,  and  a  single  rock  worn  by  the  waves  into 
the  shape  of  a  rude  seat  is  his  chair.  A  mile  or  two  far- 
ther along  the  coast  two  cliffs  project  from  the  range,  leav- 
ing a  vast  semicircular  space  between,  which  from  its  re- 
semblance to  the  old  Roman  theatres  was  appropriated  for 
that  purpose  by  the  giant.  Halfway  down  the  crags  are 
two  or  three  pinnacles  of  rock  called  the  Chimneys,  and  the 
stumps  of  several  others  can  be  seen,  which,  it  is  said,  were 
shot  off  by  a  vessel  belonging  to  the  Spanish  Armada  in 
mistake  for  the  towers  of  Dunluce  Castle.  The  vessel  was 
afterward  wrecked  in  the  bay  below,  which  has  ever  since 
been  called  Spanish  Bay,  and  in  calm  weather  the  wreck 
may  be  still  seen.  Many  of  the  columns  of  the  Causeway 
have  been  carried  off  and  sold  as  pillars  for  mantels,  and, 
though  a  notice  is  put  up  threatening  any  one  with  the  rigor 
of  the  law,  depredations  are  occasionally  made. 

Returning,  we  left  the  road  at  Dunluce  and  took  a  path 
which  led  along  the  summit  of  the  cliffs.  The  twilight  was 
gathering  and  the  wind  blew  with  perfect  fury,  which,  com- 
bined with  the  black  and  stormy  sky,  gave  the  coast  an  air 
of  extreme  wildness.  All  at  once,  as  we  followed  the  wind- 
ing path,  the  crags  appeared  to  open  before  us,  disclosing  a 
yawning  chasm  down  which  a  large  stream  falling  in  an 


LOST.  27 

unbroken  sheet  was  lost  in  the  gloom  below.  Witnessed  in 
a  calm  day,  there  may  perhaps  be  nothing  striking  about 
it,  but  coming  upon  us  at  once  through  the  gloom  of  twi- 
light, with  the  sea  thundering  below  and  a  scowling  sky 
above,  it  was  absolutely  startling. 

The  path  at  last  wound  with  many  a  steep  and  slippery 
bend  down  the  almost  perpendicular  crags  to  the  shore  at 
the  foot  of  a  giant  isolated  rock  having  a  natural  arch 
tli  rough  it,  eighty  feet  in  height.  We  followed  the  narrow 
strip  of  beach,  having  the  bare  crags  on  one  side  and  a  line 
of  foaming  breakers  on  the  other.  It  soon  grew  dark ;  a 
furious  storm  came  up  and  swept  like  a  hurricane  along  the 
shore.  I  then  understood  what  Home  means  by  "the 
lengthening  javelins  of  the  blast,"  for  every  drop  seemed  to 
strike  with  the  force  of  an  arrow,  and  our  clothes  were  soon 
pierced  in  every  part. 

Then  we  wTent  up  among  the  sand-hills  and  lost  each 
other  in  the  darkness,  when,  after  stumbling  about  among 
the  gullies  for  half  an  hour  shouting  for  my  companions,  I 
found  the  road  and  heard  my  call  answered ;  but  it  hap- 
pened to  be  two  Irishmen,  who  came  up  and  said,  "  And  is 
it  another  gintleman  ye're  callin'  for  ?  We  heard  some  one 
cryin',  and  didn't  know  but  somebody  might  be  kilt." 

Finally,  about  eleven  o'clock,  we  all  arrived  at  the  inn 
dripping  with  rain,  and  before  a  warm  fire  concluded  the 
adventures  of  our  day  in  Ireland. 


CHAPTER    III. 

BEN   LOMOND    AND   THE   HIGHLAND   LAKES. 

The  steamboat  Londonderry  called  the  next  day  at  Port 
Rush,  and  wre  left  in  her  for  Greenock.  We  ran  down  the 
Irish  coast  past  Dunluce  Castle  and   the  Causeway ;    the 


28  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Giant's  Organ  was  very  plainly  visible,  and  the  winds  were 
strong  enough  to  have  sounded  a  storm-song  upon  it.  Far- 
ther on  we  had  a  distant  view  of  Carrick-a-Rede,  a  precipi- 
tous rock,  separated  by  a  yawning  chasm  from  the  shore, 
frequented  by  the  catchers  of  sea-birds.  A  narrow  swing- 
ing bridge  which  is  only  passable  in  calm  weather  crosses 
this  chasm,  two  hundred  feet  above  the  water. 

The  deck  of  the  steamer  was  crowded  with  Irish,  and 
certainly  gave  no  favorable  impression  of  the  condition  of 
the  peasantry  of  Ireland.  On  many  of  their  countenances 
there  was  scarcely  a  mark  of  intelligence ;  they  were  a  most 
brutalized  and  degraded  company  of  beings.  Many  of 
them  were  in  a  beastly  state  of  intoxication,  which,  from 
the  contents  of  some  of  their  pockets,  was  not  likely  to  de- 
crease. As  evening  drew  on  two  or  three  began  singing, 
and  the  others  collected  in  groups  around  them.  One  of 
them,  who  sang  with  great  spirit,  was  loudly  applauded, 
and  poured  forth  song  after  song  of  the  most  rude  and  un- 
refined character. 

We  took  a  deck-passage  for  three  shillings  in  preference 
to  paying  twenty  for  the  cabin,  and,  having  secured  a  va- 
cant place  near  the  chimney,  kept  it  during  the  whole  pas- 
sage. The  waves  were  as  rough  in  the  Channel  as  I  ever 
saw  them  in  the  Atlantic,  and  our  boat  was  tossed  about 
like  a  plaything.  By  keeping  still  we  escaped  sickness,  but 
we  could  not  avoid  the  sight  of  the  miserable  beings  who 
filled  the  deck.  Many  of  them  spoke  in  the  Irish  tongue, 
and  our  German  friend  (the  student  whom  I  have  already 
mentioned)  noticed  in  many  of  the  words  a  resemblance  to 
his  mother-tongue.  I  procured  a  bowl  of  soup  from  the 
steward,  but,  as  I  was  not  able  to  eat  it,  I  gave  it  to  an  old 
man  whose  hungry  look  and  wistful  eyes  convinced  me  it 
would  not  be  lost  on  him.  He  swallowed  it  with  ravenous 
avidity,  together  with  a  crust  of  bread,  which  was  all  I  had 
to  give  him,  and  seemed  for  the  time  as  happy  and  cheerful 
as  if  all  his  earthly  wants  were  satisfied. 


MEMORIES  OF  HOME.  29 

We  passed  by  the  foot  of  Goat  Fell,  a  lofty  mountain  on 
the  island  of  Arran,  and  sped  on  through  the  darkness  past 
the  hills  of  Bute,  till  we  entered  the  Clyde.  We  arrived 
at  Greenock  at  one  o'clock  at  night,  and,  walking  at  ran- 
dom through  its  silent  streets,  met  a  policeman,  whom  we 
asked  to  show  us  where  we  might  find  lodgings.  He  took 
my  cousin  and  myself  to  the  house  of  a  poor  widow  who  had 
a  spare  bed  which  she  let  to  strangers,  and  then  conducted 
our  comrade  and  the  German  to  another  lodging-place. 

An  Irish  strolling  musician  who  was  on  board  the  Dum- 
barton boat  commenced  playing  soon  after  we  left  Greenock, 
and,  to  my  surprise,  struck  at  once  into  "Hail,  Columbia!" 
Then  he  gave  "  The  Exile  of  Erin  "  with  the  most  touching 
sweetness  ;  and  I  noticed  that  always  after  playing  any  air 
that  was  desired  of  him  he  would  invariably  return  to  the 
sad  lament,  which  I  never  heard  executed  with  more  feeling. 
It  might  have  been  the  mild,  soft  air  of  the  morning  or 
some  peculiar  mood  of  mind  that  influenced  me,  but  I  have 
been  far  less  affected  by  music  which  would  be  considered 
immeasurably  superior  to  his.  I  had  been  thinking  of 
America,  and,  going  up  to  the  old  man,  I  quietly  bade  him 
play  "  Home."  It  thrilled  with  a  painful  delight  that 
almost  brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  My  companion  started  as 
the  sweet  melody  arose,  and  turned  toward  me,  his  face  kin- 
dling with  emotion. 

Dumbarton  Rock  rose  higher  and  higher  as  we  went  up 
the  Clyde,  and  before  we  arrived  at  the  town  I  hailed  the 
dim  outline  of  Ben  Lomond,  rising  far  off  among  the  High- 
lands. The  town  is  at  the  head  of  a  small  inlet  a  short 
distance  from  the  rock,  which  was  once  surrounded  by 
water.  We  went  immediately  to  the  castle.  The  rock  is 
nearly  five  hundred  feet  high,  and  from  its  position  and 
great  strength  as  a  fortress  has  been  called  the  Gibraltar 
of  Scotland.  The  top  is  surrounded  with  battlements,  and 
the  armory  and  barracks  stand  in  a  cleft  between  the  two 
peaks.     We  passed  down  a  green  lane,  around  the  rock, 


30  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

and  entered  the  castle  on  the  south  side.  A  soldier  con- 
ducted us  through  a  narrow  cleft  overhung  with  crags  to 
the  summit.  Here,  from  the  remains  of  a  round  building 
called  Wallace's  Tower,  from  its  having  been  used  as  a 
lookout  station  by  that  chieftain,  we  had  a  beautiful  view 
of  the  whole  of  Leven  Yale  to  Loch  Lomond,  Ben  Lomond 
and  the  Highlands,  and  on  the  other  hand  the  Clyde  and 
the  Isle  of  Bute.  In  the  soft  and  still  balminess  of  the 
morning  it  was  a  lovely  picture.  In  the  armory  I  lifted  the 
sword  of  Wallace,  a  two-handed  weapon  five  feet  in  length. 
We  were  also  shown  a  Lochaber  battle-axe  from  Bannock- 
burn,  and  several  ancient  claymores. 

We  lingered  long  upon  the  summit  before  we  forsook  the 
stern  fortress  for  the  sweet  vale  spread  out  before  us.  It 
was  indeed  a  glorious  walk  from  Dumbarton  to  Loch  Lo- 
mond through  this  enchanting  valley.  The  air  was  mild 
and  clear  ;  a  few  light  clouds  occasionally  crossing  the  sun 
chequered  the  hills  with  sun  and  shade.  I  have  as  yet  seen 
nothing  that  in  pastoral  beauty  can  compare  with  its  glassy 
winding  stream,  its  mossy  old  woods  and  guarding  hills  and 
the  ivy-grown,  castellated  towers  embosomed  in  its  forests 
or  standing  on  the  banks  of  the  Leven — the  purest  of  rivers. 
At  the  little  village  called  Renton  is  a  monument  to  Smol- 
lett, but  the  inhabitants  seem  to  neglect  his  memory,  as  one 
of  the  tablets  on  the  pedestal  is  broken  and  half  fallen  away. 
Farther  up  the  vale  a  farmer  showed  us  an  old  mansion  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  of  trees  on  the  bank  of  the  Leven 
which  he  said  belonged  to  Smollett — or  Roderick  Random, 
as  he  called  him.  Two  or  three  old  pear  trees  were  still 
standing  where  the  garden  had  formerly  been,  under  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  play  in  his  childhood. 

At  the  head  of  Leven  Vale  we  set  off  in  the  steamer 
Water-Witch  over  the  crystal  waters  of  Loch  Lomond, 
passing  Inch  Murrin,  the  deer-park  of  the  duke  of  Mont- 
rose, and  Inch  Caillach, 


ROB  ROY'S  CAVE.  31 

"where  gray  pines  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan  Alpine's  grave." 

Under  the  clear  sky  and  golden  light  of  the  declining  sun 
Ave  entered  the  Highlands,  and  heard  on  every  side  names 
we  had  learned  long  ago  in  the  lays  of  Scott.  Here  were 
Glen  Fruin  and  Bannochar,  Ross  Dhu  and  the  pass  of 
Beal-ma-na.  Farther  still  we  passed  Rob  Roy's  rock,  where 
the  lake  is  locked  in  by  lofty  mountains.  The  cone-like 
peak  of  Ben  Lomond  rises  far  above  on  the  right,  Ben 
Voirlich  stands  in  front,  and  the  jagged  crest  of  Ben  Arthur 
looks  over  the  shoulders  of  the  western  hills.  A  Scotchman 
on  board  pointed  out  to  us  the  remarkable  places  and  related 
many  interesting  legends.  Above  Inversnaid,  where  there 
is  a  beautiful  waterfall  leaping  over  the  rock  and  glancing 
out  from  the  overhanging  birches,  we  passed  McFarland's 
Island,  concerning  the  origin  of  which  name  he  gave  a  his- 
tory. A  nephew  of  one  of  the  old  earls  of  Lennox,  the  ruins 
of  whose  castle  we  saw  on  Inch  Murrin,  having  murdered 
his  uncle's  cook  in  a  quarrel,  was  obliged  to  flee  for  his  life. 
Returning  after  many  years,  he  built  a  castle  upon  this 
island,  which  was  always  after  named,  on  account  of  his 
exile,  Farland.  On  a  precipitous  point  above  Inversnaid 
are  two  caves  in  the  rock ;  one  near  the  water  is  called  Rob 
Roy's,  though  the  guides  generally  call  it  Bruce's  also,  to 
avoid  trouble,  as  the  real  Bruce's  cave  is  high  up  the  hill. 
It  is  so  called  because  Bruce  hid  there  one  night  from  the 
pursuit  of  his  enemies.  It  is  related  that  a  mountain-goat 
who  used  this,  probably,  for  a  sleeping-place,  entered,  trod 
on  his  mantle  and  aroused  him.  Thinking  his  enemies  were 
upon  him,  he  sprang  up,  and  saw  the  silly  animal  before 
him.  In  token  of  gratitude  for  this  agreeable  surprise, 
when  he  became  king  a  law  was  passed  declaring  goats  free 
throughout  all  Scotland — unpunishable  for  whatever  tres- 
pass they  might  commit ;  and  the  legend  further  says  that, 
not  having  been  repealed,  it  continues  in  force  at  the 
present  day. 


32  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

On  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake  is  a  large  rock  called 
Bull's  Rock,  having  a  door  in  the  side,  with  a  stairway  cut 
through  the  interior  to  a  pulpit  on  the  top,  from  which  the 
pastor  at  Arroquhar  preaches  a  monthly  discourse.  The 
Gaelic  legend  of  the  rock  is  that  it  once  stood  near  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain  above,  and  was  very  nearly  balanced 
on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Two  wild  bulls  fighting  violently 
dashed  with  great  force  against  the  rock,  which,  being 
thrown  from  its  balance,  was  tumbled  down  the  side  of  the 
mountain  till  it  reached  its  present  position.  The  Scot  was 
speaking  with  great  bitterness  of  the  betrayal  of  Wallace, 
when  I  asked  him  if  it  was  still  considered  an  insult  to 
turn  a  loaf  of  bread  bottom  upward  in  the  presence  of  a 
Monteith.  "  Indeed  it  is,  sir,"  said  he.  "  I  have  often 
done  it  myself." 

Until  last  May  travellers  were  taken  do  higher  up  the 
lake  than  Rob  Roy's  cave,  but,  another  boat  having  com- 
menced running,  they  can  now  go  beyond  Loch  Lomond, 
two  miles  up  Glen  Falloch,  to  the  Inn  of  Inverarnan,  there- 
by visiting  some  of  the  finest  scenery  in  that  part  of  the 
Highlands.  It  was  ludicrous,  however,  to  see  the  steam- 
boat on  a  river  scarcely  wider  than  herself,  in  a  little  valley 
hemmed  in  completely  with  lofty  mountains.  She  went  on, 
however,  pushing  aside  the  thickets  which  lined  both  banks, 
and  I  almost  began  to  think  she  was  going  to  take  the  shore 
for  it,  when  we  came  to  a  place  widened  out  for  her  to  be 
turned  around  in ;  here  we  jumped  ashore  in  a  green 
meadow  on  which  the  cool  mist  was  beginning  to  de- 
scend. 

When  we  arose  in  the  morning,  at  four  o'clock,  to  return 
with  the  boat,  the  sun  was  already  shining  upon  the  west- 
ward hills ;  scarcely  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky  and  the  air  was 
pure  and  cool.  To  our  great  delight,  Ben  Lomond  was  un- 
shrouded,  and  we  were  told  that  a  more  favorable  day  for 
the  ascent  had  not  occurred  for  two  months.  We  left  the 
boat  at  Rowardennan,  an  inn  at  the  southern  base  of  Ben 


BEN   LOMOND.  33 

Lomond.  After  breakfasting  on  Loch  Lomond  trout  I  stole 
out  to  the  shore  while  my  companions  were  preparing  for 
the  ascent,  and  made  a  hasty  sketch  of  the  lake. 

We  proposed  descending  on  the  northern  side  and  cross- 
ing the  Highlands  to  Loch  Katrine ;  though  it  was  repre- 
sented as  difficult  and  dangerous  by  the  guide  who  wished 
to  accompany  us,  we  determined  to  run  the  risk  of  being 
enveloped  in  a  cloud  on  the  summit,  and  so  set  out  alone, 
the  path  appearing  plain  before  us.  We  had  no  difficulty 
in  following  it  up  the  lesser  heights,  around  the  base.  It 
wound  on  over  rock  and  bog,  among  the  heather  and  broom 
with  which  the  mountain  is  covered,  sometimes  running  up 
a  steep  acclivity  and  then  winding  zigzag  round  a  rocky 
ascent.  The  rains  two  days  before  had  made  the  bogs  damp 
and  muddy,  but,  with  this  exception,  we  had  little  trouble 
for  some  time. 

Ben  Lomond  is  a  doubly-formed  mountain.  For  about 
three-fourths  of  the  way  there  is  a  continued  ascent,  when 
it  is  suddenly  terminated  by  a  large  barren  plain,  from  one 
end  of  which  the  summit  shoots  up  abruptly,  forming  at 
the  north  side  a  precipice  five  hundred  feet  high.  As  we 
approached  the  summit  of  the  first  part  of  the  mountain 
the  way  became  very  steep  and  toilsome,  but  the  prospect, 
which  had  before  been  only  on  the  south  side,  began  to  open 
on  the  east,  and  we  saw  suddenly  spread  out  below  us  the 
vale  of  Menteith,  with  "far  Loch  Ard  and  Aberfoil"  in  the 
centre  and  the  huge  front  of  Benvenue  filling  up  the  pic- 
ture. Taking  courage  from  this,  we  hurried  on.  The 
heather  had  become  stunted  and  dwarfish,  and  the  ground 
was  covered  with  short  brown  grass.  The  mountain-sheep 
which  we  saw  looking  at  us  from  the  rock  above  had  worn 
so  many  paths  along  the  side  that  we  could  not  tell  which 
to  take,  but  pushed  on  in  the  direction  of  the  summit,  till, 
thinking  it  must  be  near  at  hand,  we  found  a  mile  and  a 
half  of  plain  before  us,  with  the  top  of  Ben  Lomond  at  the 
farther  end.     The  plain  was  full  of  wet  moss  crossed  in  all 

3 


34  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

directions  by  deep  ravines  or  gullies  worn  in  it  by  the  moun- 
tain-rains, and  the  wind  swept  across  with  a  tempest-like 
force. 

I  met  near  the  base  a  young  gentleman  from  Edinburgh 
who  had  left  Kowardennan  before  us,  and  we  commenced 
ascending  together.  It  was  hard  work,  but  neither  liked  to 
stop ;  so  we  climbed  up  to  the  first  resting-place,  and  found 
the  path  leading  along  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  We  soon 
attained  the  summit,  and,  climbing  up  a  little  mound  of 
earth  and  stones,  I  saw  the  half  of  Scotland  at  a  glance. 
The  clouds  hung  just  above  the  mountain-tops,  which  rose 
all  around  like  the  waves  of  a  mighty  sea.  On  every  side, 
near  and  far,  stood  their  misty  summits,  but  Ben  Lomond 
was  the  monarch  of  them  all.  Loch  Lomond  lay  unrolled 
under  my  feet  like  a  beautiful  map,  and,  just  opposite,  Loch 
Long  thrust  its  head  from  between  the  feet  of  the  crowded 
hills  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  giant.  We  could  see  from 
Ben  Nevis  to  Ayr — from  Edinburgh  to  Staffa.  Stirling  and 
Edinburgh  castles  would  have  been  visible  but  that  the 
clouds  hung  low  in  the  valley  of  the  Forth  and  hid  them 
from  our  sight. 

The  view  from  Ben  Lomond  is  nearly  twice  as  extensive 
as  that  from  the  Catskill,  being  uninterrupted  on  every  side, 
but  it  wants  the  glorious  forest-scenery,  clear  blue  sky  and 
active,  rejoicing  character  of  the  latter.  We  stayed  about 
two  hours  upon  the  summit,  taking  refuge  behind  the  cairn 
when  the  wind  blew  strong.  I  found  the  smallest  of  flow- 
ers under  a  rock,  and  brought  it  away  as  a  memento.  In 
the  middle  of  the  precipice  there  is  a  narrow  ravine — or, 
rather,  cleft  in  the  rock — to  the  bottom,  from  whence  the 
mountain  slopes  regularly  but  steeply  down  to  the  valley. 
At  the  bottom  we  stopped  to  awake  the  echoes,  which  were 
repeated  four  times;  our  German  companion  sang  the 
"  Hunter's  Chorus,"  which  resounded  magnificently  through 
this  Highland  hall.  We  drank  from  the  river  Forth,  which 
starts  from  a  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  then  com- 


HIGHLAND  SCENERY.  35 

menced  descending.  This  was  also  toilsome  enough.  The 
mountain  was  quite  wet  and  covered  with  loose  stones, 
which,  dislodged  by  our  feet,  went  rattling  down  the  side, 
oftentimes  to  the  danger  of  the  foremost  ones ;  and  when 
we  had  run — or,  rather,  slid — down  the  three  miles  to  the 
bottom,  our  knees  trembled  so  as  scarcely  to  support  us. 

Here,  at  a  cottage  on  the  farm  of  Coman,  we  procured 
some  oatcakes  and  milk  for  dinner  from  an  old  Scotch  wo- 
man who  pointed  out  the  direction  of  Loch  Katrine,  six 
miles  distant ;  there  was  no  road,  nor,  indeed,  a  solitary 
dwelling  between.  The  hills  were  bare  of  trees,  covered 
with  scraggy  bushes  and  rough  heath,  which  in  some  places 
was  so  thick  we  could  scarcely  drag  our  feet  through.  Add- 
ed to  this,  the  ground  was  covered  with  a  kind  of  moss 
that  retained  the  moisture  like  a  sponge ;  so  that  our  boots 
ere  long  became  thoroughly  soaked.  Several  considerable 
streams  were  rushing  down  the  side,  and  many  of  the  wild 
breed  of  black  Highland  cattle  were  grazing  around.  After 
climbing  up  and  down  one  or  two  heights,  occasionally 
startling  the  moorcock  and  ptarmigan  from  their  heathery 
coverts,  we  saw  the  valley  of  Loch  Con,  while  in  the  middle 
of  the  plain  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  we  had  ascended 
was  a  sheet  of  water  which  we  took  to  be  Loch  Ackill. 
Two  or  three  wild-fowl  swimming  on  its  surface  were  the 
only  living  things  in  sight.  The  peaks  around  shut  it  out 
from  all  view  of  the  world ;  a  single  decayed  tree  leaned 
over  it  from  a  mossy  rock  which  gave  the  whole  scene  an 
air  of  the  most  desolate  wildness.  I  forget  the  name  of 
the  lake,  but  we  learned  afterward  that  the  Highlanders 
consider  it  the  abode  of  the  fairies,  or  "  men  of  peace,"  and 
that  it  is  still  superstitiously  shunned  by  them  after  night- 
fall. 

From  the  next  mountain  we  saw  Loch  Ackill  and  Loch 
Katrine  below,  but  a  wet  and  weary  descent  had  yet  to  be 
made.  I  was  about  throwing  off  my  knapsack  on  a  rock 
to  take  a  sketch  of  Loch  Katrine,  which  appeared  very 


36  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

beautiful  from  this  point,  when  we  discerned  a  cavalcade  of 
ponies  winding  along  the  path  from  Inversnaid  to  the  head 
of  the  lake,  and  hastened  down  to  take  the  boat  when  they 
should  arrive.  Our  haste  turned  out  to  be  unnecessary, 
however,  for  they  had  to  wait  for  their  luggage,  which  was 
long  in  coming.  Two  boatmen  then  offered  to  take  us  for 
two  shillings  and  sixpence  each,  with  the  privilege  of  stop- 
ping at  Ellen's  Isle,  the  regular  fare  being  two  shillings. 
We  got  in,  when,  after  exchanging  a  few  words  in  Gaelic, 
one  of  them  called  to  the  travellers — of  whom  there  were  a 
number — to  come  and  take  passage  at  two  shillings,  then  at 
one  and  sixpence,  and  finally  concluded  by  requesting  them 
all  to  step  on  board  the  shilling  boat.  At  length,  having 
secured  nine  at  this  reduced  price,  we  pushed  off;  one  of 
the  passengers  took  the  helm,  and  the  boat  glided  merrily 
over  the  clear  water. 

It  appears  there  is  some  opposition  among  the  boatmen 
this  summer,  which  is  all  the  better  for  travellers.  They 
are  a  bold  race,  and  still  preserve  many  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  the  clan  from  which  they  sprung.  One  of  ours  who 
had  a  chieftain-like  look  was  a  MacGregor  related  to  Rob 
Roy.  The  fourth  descendant  in  a  direct  line  now  inhabits 
the  Rob  Roy  mansion  at  Glengyle,  a  valley  at  the  head  of 
the  lake.  A  small  steamboat  was  put  upon  Loch  Katrine 
a  short  time  ago,  but  the  boatmen,  jealous  of  this  new  in- 
vasion of  their  privilege,  one  night  towed  her  out  to  the 
middle  of  the  lake,  and  there  sunk  her. 

Near  the  point  of  Brianchoil  is  a  very  small  island  with 
a  few  trees  upon  it  of  which  the  boatman  related  a  story 
that  was  new  to  me.  He  said  an  eccentric  individual  many 
years  ago  built  his  house  upon  it,  but  it  was  soon  beaten 
down  by  the  winds  and  waves.  Having  built  it  up  with 
like  fortune  several  times,  he  at  last  desisted,  saying  "bought 
wisdom  was  the  best,"  since  when  it  had  been  called  the  Isl- 
and of  Wisdom.  On  the  shore  below  the  boatman  showed 
us  his  cottage.     The  whole  family  were  out  at  the  door  to 


LOCH  KATRINE.  37 

witness  our  progress.  He  hoisted  a  flag;  and  when  we 
came  opposite,  they  exchanged  shouts  in  Gaelic.  As  our 
men  resumed  their  oars  again  we  assisted  in  giving  three 
cheers  which  made  the  echoes  of  Benvenue  ring  again. 
Some  one  observed  his  dog  looking  after  us  from  a  project- 
ing rock,  when  he  called  out  to  him,  "  Go  home, you  brute!" 
We  asked  him  why  he  did  not  speak  Gaelic  also  to  his  dog. 

"  Very  few  dogs  indeed,"  said  he,  "  understand  Gaelic, 
but  they  all  understand  English,  and  we  therefore  all  use 
English  when  speaking  to  our  dogs.  Indeed,  I  know  some 
persons  who  know  nothing  of  English  that  speak  it  to  their 
dogs." 

They  then  sang,  in  a  rude  manner,  a  Gaelic  song.  The 
only  word  I  could  distinguish  was  Inch  Caillach,  the  bury- 
ing-place  of  Clan  Alpine.  They  told  us  it  was  the  answer 
of  a  Highland  girl  to  a  foreign  lord  who  wished  to  make 
her  his  bride.  Perhaps,  like  the  American  Indian,  she 
would  not  leave  the  graves  of  her  fathers. 

As  we  drew  near  the  eastern  end  of  the  lake  the  scenery 
became  far  more  beautiful.  The  Trosachs  opened  before 
us.  Ben  Ledi  looked  down  over  the  "  forehead  bare  "  of 
Ben  An,  and  as  we  turned  a  rocky  point  Ellen's  Isle  rose 
up  in  front.  It  is  a  beautiful  little  turquoise  in  the  silver 
setting  of  Loch  Katrine.  The  northern  side  alone  is  access- 
ible, all  the  others  being  rocky  and  perpendicular  and 
thickly  grown  with  trees.  We  rounded  the  island  to  the 
little  bay,  bordered  by  the  silver  strand,  above  which  is  the 
rock  from  which  Fitz-James  wound  his  horn,  and  shot  under 
an  ancient  oak  which  flung  its  long  gray  arms  over  the 
water.  We  here  found  a  flight  of  rocky  steps  leading  to 
the  top,  where  stood  the  bower  erected  by  Lady  Willoughby 
D'Eresby  to  correspond  with  Scott's  description.  Two  or 
three  blackened  beams  are  all  that  remain  of  it,  having 
been  burned  down  some  years  ago  by  the  carelessness  of  a 
traveller. 

The  mountains  stand  all  around,  like  giants,  to  "  sentinel 


145779 


38  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

this  enchanted  land."  On  leaving  the  island  we  saw  the 
Goblin's  Cave  in  the  side  of  Benvenue,  called  by  the  Gaels 
"  Coirnan-Uriskin."  Near  it  is  Beal-nam-bo— the  "Pass 
of  Cattle  "—overhung  with  gray  weeping  birch  trees. 

Here  the  boatmen  stopped  to  let  us  hear  the  fine  echo, 
and  the  names  of  Rob  Roy  and  Roderick  Dim  were  sent 
back  to  us  apparently  as  loud  as  they  were  given.  The  de- 
scription of  Scott  is  wonderfully  exact,  though  the  forest 
that  feathered  o'er  the  sides  of  Benvenue  has  since  been 
cut  down  and  sold  by  the  duke  of  Montrose. 

When  we  reached  the  end  of  the  lake,  it  commenced 
raining,  and  we  hastened  on  through  the  pass  of  Beal-an- 
Duine,  scarcely  taking  time  to  glance  at  the  scenery,  till 
Loch  Achray  appeared  through  the  trees,  and  on  its  banks 
the  ivy-grown  front  of  the  inn  of  Ardcheancrochan — with 
its  unpronounceable  name. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   BURNS   FESTIVAL. 


We  passed  a  glorious  summer  morning  on  the  banks  of 
Loch  Katrine.  The  air  was  pure,  fresh  and  balmy,  and  the 
warm  sunshine  glowed  upon  forest  and  lake,  upon  dark 
crag  and  purple  mountain-top.  The  lake  was  a  scene  in 
Fairyland.  Returning  over  the  rugged  battle-plain  in  the 
jaws  of  the  Trosachs,  we  passed  the  wild,  lonely  valley  of 
Glenfinlas  and  Lanric  Mead  at  the  head  of  Loch  Venna- 
char,  rounding  the  foot  of  Ben  Ledi  to  Coilantogle  Ford. 
We  saw  the  desolate  hills  of  Uam-var  over  which  the  stag 
fled  from  his  lair  in  Glenartney,  and,  keeping  on  through 
Callander,  stopped  for  the  night  at  a  little  inn  on  the  banks 
of  the  Teith.  The  next  day  we  walked  through  Doune, 
over  the  lowlands,  to  Stirling.     Crossing  Allan  Water  and 


THE  BURNS  FESTIVAL.  39 

the  Forth,  we  climbed  Stirling  Castle  and  looked  on  the 
purple  peaks  of  the  Ochill  Mountains,  the  far  Grampians 
and  the  battlefields  of  Bannockburn  and  Sheriff  Muir. 
Our  German  comrade,  feeling  little  interest  in  the  memory 
of  the  poet-ploughman,  left  in  the  steamboat  for  Edinburgh  ; 
we  mounted  an  English  coach  and  rode  to  Falkirk,  where 
we  took  the  cars  for  Glasgow  in  order  to  attend  the  Burns 
festival,  on  the  6th  of  August. 

This  was  a  great  day  for  Scotland — the  assembling  of  all 
classes  to  do  honor  to  the  memory  of  her  peasant-bard. 
And  right  fitting  was  it,  too,  that  such  a  meeting  should  be 
held  on  the  banks  of  the  Doon,  the  stream  of  which  he  has 
sung  so  sweetly,  within  sight  of  the  cot  where  he  was  born, 
the  beautiful  monument  erected  by  his  countrymen,  and, 
more  than  all,  beside  "  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall."  One 
would  think  old  Albyn  would  rise  up  at  the  call,  and  that 
from  the  wild  hunters  of  the  northern  hills  to  the  shepherds 
of  the  Cheviots  half  her  honest  yeomanry  would  be  there 
to  render  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  the  sweet  bard  who 
was  one  of  them,  and  who  gave  their  wants  and  their  woes 
such  eloquent  utterance. 

For  months  before  had  the  proposition  been  made  to  hold 
a  meeting  on  the  Doon  similar  to  the  Shakespeare  festival  on 
the  Avon,  and  the  10th  of  July  was  first  appointed  for  the 
day,  but,  owing  to  the  necessity  of  further  time  for  prepa- 
ration, it  was  postponed  until  the  6th  of  August.  The  earl 
of  Eglintoun  was  chosen  chairman  and  Professor  Wilson 
vice-chairman.  In  addition  to  this,  all  the  most  eminent 
British  authors  were  invited  to  attend.  A  pavilion  capable 
of  containing  two  thousand  persons  had  been  erected  near 
the  monument,  in  a  large  field,  which  was  thrown  open  to 
the  public.  Other  preparations  were  made,  and  the  meet- 
ing was  expected  to  be  of  the  most  interesting  character. 

When  we  arose,  it  was  raining,  and  I  feared  that  the 
weather  might  dampen  somewhat  the  pleasures  of  the  day, 
as  it  had  done  to  the  celebrated  tournament  at  Eglintoun 


40  VIEWS   -V-FOOT. 

Castle.  We  reached  the  station  in  time  for  the  first  train, 
and  sped  in  the  face  of  the  wind  over  the  plains  of  Ayr- 
shire, which  under  such  a  gloomy  sky  looked  most  desolate. 
We  ran  some  distance  along  the  coast,  having  a  view  of 
the  Hills  of  Arran,  and  reached  Ayr  about  nine  o'clock. 
We  came  first  to  the  New  Bridge,  which  had  a  triumphal 
arch  in  the  middle,  and  the  lines  from  the  "  Twa  Brigs  of 
Ayr:" 

"  Will  your  poor  narrow  footpath  of  a  street, 
Where  twa  wheelbarrows  tremble  when  they  meet, 
Your  ruin'd,  formless  bulk  o'  stane  and  lime, 
Compare  wi'  bonnie  brigs  o'  modern  time  ?" 

While  on  the  arch  of  the  "  old  brig  "  was  the  reply : 

"  I'll  be  a  brig  when  ye're  a  shapeless  stane." 

As  we  advanced  into  the  town  the  decorations  became 
more  frequent.  The  streets  were  crowded  with  people  car- 
rying banners  and  wreaths,  many  of  the  houses  were 
adorned  with  green  boughs  and  the  vessels  in  the  harbor 
bung  out  all  their  flags.  We  saw  the  Wallace  Tower,  a 
high  Gothic  building  having  in  front  a  statue  of  Wallace 
leaning  on  his  sword,  by  Thorn,  a  native  of  Ayr,  and  on 
our  way  to  the  green,  where  the  procession  was  to  assemble, 
passed  under  the  triumphal  arch  thrown  across  the  street 
opposite  the  inn  where  Tarn  O'Shanter  caroused  so  long 
with  Souter  Johnny.  Leaving  the  companies  to  form  on 
the  long  meadow  bordering  the  shore,  we  set  out  for  the 
Doon,  three  miles  distant.  Beggars  were  seated  at  regular 
distances  along  the  road,  uttering  the  most  dolorous  winn- 
ings. Both  bridges  were  decorated  in  the  same  manner 
with  miserable-looking  objects  keeping  up  during  the  whole 
day  a  continual  lamentation.  Persons  are  prohibited  from 
begging  in  England  and  Scotland,  but  I  suppose,  this  being 
an  extraordinary  day,  license  was  given  them,  as  a  favor, 
to  beg  free.     I  noticed  that  the  women,  with  their  usual 


BURNS'S  COTTAGE.  41 

kindness  of  heart,  bestowed  nearly  all  the  alms  which  these 
unfortunate  objects  received.  The  night  before,  as  I  was 
walking  through  the  streets  of  Glasgow,  a  young  man  of 
the  poorer  class,  very  scantily  dressed,  stepped  up  to  me 
and  begged  me  to  listen  to  him  for  a  moment.  He  spoke 
hurriedly  and  agitatedly,  begging  me,  in  God's  name,  to 
give  him  something,  however  little.  I  gave  him  what  few 
pence  I  had  with  me,  when  he  grasped  my  hand  with  a 
quick  motion,  saying,  "  Sir,  you  little  think  how  much  you 
have  done  for  me."  I  was  about  to  inquire  more  particu- 
larly into  his  situation,  but  he  had  disappeared  among  the 
crowd. 

We  passed  the  "  cairn  where  hunters  found  the  murdered 
bairn,"  along  a  pleasant  road  to  the  Burns  cottage,  where 
it  was  spanned  by  a  magnificent  triumphal  arch  of  ever- 
greens and  flowers.  To  the  disgrace  of  Scotland,  this  neat 
little  thatched  cot,  where  Burns  passed  the  first  seven  years 
of  his  life,  is  now  occupied  by  somebody  who  has  stuck  up 
a  sign  over  the  door,  "  Licensed  to  Retail  Spirits,  to  be 
Drunk  on  the  Premises,"  and  accordingly  the  rooms  were 
crowded  full  of  people,  all  drinking.  There  was  a  fine  origi- 
nal portrait  of  Burns  in  one  room,  and  in  the  old-fashioned 
kitchen  we  saw  the  recess  where  he  was  born.  The  hostess 
looked  toward  us  as  if  to  inquire  what  we  would  drink,  and 
I  hastened  away  :  there  was  profanity  in  the  thought.  But 
by  this  time  the  bell  of  Old  Alloway,  which  still  hangs  in 
its  accustomed  place,  though  the  walls  only  are  left,  began 
tolling,  and  we  obeyed  the  call.  The  attachment  of  the 
people  for  this  bell  is  so  great  that  a  short  time  ago,  when 
it  was  ordered  to  be  removed,  the  inhabitants  rose  en  masse 
and  prevented  it.  The  ruin,  which  is  close  by  the  road, 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  churchyard,  and  the  first  thing 
I  saw  on  going  in  the  gate  was  the  tomb  of  the  father  of 
Burns.  I  looked  in  the  old  window,  but  the  interior  was 
filled  with  rank  weeds  and  overshadowed  by  a  young  tree 
which  had  grown  nearly  to  the  eaves. 


42  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

The  crowd  was  now  fast  gathering  in  the  large  field  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  pavilion  was  situated.  We  went 
down  by  the  beautiful  monument  to  Burns  to  the  "Auld 
Brig  o'  Doon,"  which  was  spanned  by  an  arch  of  ever- 
greens containing  a  representation  of  Tarn  O'Shanter  and 
his  gray  mare  pursued  by  the  witches. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  procession  was  to  pass 
over  the  old  and  new  bridges,  and  from  thence  by  a  tempo- 
rary bridge  over  the  hedge  into  the  field.  At  this  latter 
place  a  stand  was  erected  for  the  sons  of  Burns,  the  officers 
of  the  day  and  distinguished  guests.  Here  was  a  beautiful 
specimen  of  English  exclusiveness.  The  space  adjoining 
the  pavilion  was  fenced  around,  and  admittance  denied  at 
first  to  any  except  those  who  had  tickets  for  the  dinner, 
which — the  price  being  fifteen  shillings — entirely  prevented 
the  humble  laborers  who  more  than  all  should  participate 
on  the  occasion  from  witnessing  the  review  of  the  proces- 
sion by  the  sons  of  Burns  and  hearing  the  eloquent  speeches 
of  Professor  Wilson  and  Lord  Eglintoun.  Thus,  of  the 
many  thousands  who  were  in  the  field,  but  a  few  hundred 
who  were  crowded  between  the  bridge  and  the  railing 
around  the  pavilion  enjoyed  the  interesting  spectacle.  By 
good  fortune  I  obtained  a  stand  where  I  had  an  excellent 
view  of  the  scene.  The  sons  of  Burns  were  in  the  middle 
of  the  platform,  with  Eglintoun  on  the  right  and  Wilson 
on  their  left.  Mrs.  Begg,  sister  of  the  poet,  with  her 
daughters,  stood  by  the  countess  of  Eglintoun.  She  was  a 
plain,  benevolent-looking  woman  dressed  in  black  and  ap- 
pearing still  active  and  vigorous,  though  she  is  upward  of 
eighty  years  old.  She  bears  some  likeness,  especially  in  the 
expression  of  her  eye,  to  the  poet.  Robert  Burns,  the 
oldest  son,  appeared  to  me  to  have  a  strong  resemblance  of 
his  father,  and  it  is  said  he  is  the  only  one  who  remembers 
his  face.  He  has  for  a  long  time  had  an  office  under  gov- 
ernment in  London.  The  others  have  but  lately  returned 
from   a  residence    of  twenty   years   in   India.     Professor 


THE  PROCESSION.  43 

Wilson  appeared  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene  better 
than  any  of  them.  He  shouted  and  waved  his  hat,  and, 
with  his  fine  broad  forehead,  his  long  brown  locks,  already 
mixed  with  gray,  streaming  over  his  shoulders,  and  that 
eagle  eye  glancing  over  the  vast  assemblage,  seemed  a  real 
Christopher  North,  yet  full  of  the  fire  and  vigor  of  youth 
— "  a  gray-haired,  happy  boy." 

About  half  of  the  procession  consisted  of  lodges  of 
Masons,  all  of  whom  turned  out  on  the  occasion,  as  Burns 
was  one  of  the  fraternity.  I  was  most  interested  in  several 
companies  of  shepherds  from  the  hills  with  their  crooks 
and  plaids,  a  body  of  archers  in  Lincoln  green  with  a  hand- 
some chief  at  their  head,  and  some  Highlanders  in  their 
most  picturesque  of  costumes.  As  one  of  the  companies 
which  carried  a  mammoth  thistle  in  a  box  came  near  the 
platform  Wilson  snatched  a  branch,  regardless  of  its  pricks, 
and  placed  it  on  his  coat.  After  this  pageant — which  could 
not  have  been  much  less  than  three  miles  long — had  passed, 
a  band  was  stationed  on  the  platform  in  the  centre  of  the 
field,  around  which  it  formed  in  a  circle,  and  the  whole 
company  sang  "  Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doom" 
Just  at  this  time  a  person  dressed  to  represent  Tarn 
O'Shanter,  mounted  on  a  gray  mare,  issued  from  a  field 
near  the  Burns  monument  and  rode  along  toward  Alloway 
kirk,  from  which,  when  he  approached  it,  a  whole  legion 
of  witches  sallied  out  and  commenced  a  hot  pursuit.  They 
turned  back,  however,  at  the  keystone  of  the  bridge,  the 
witch  with  the  "cutty-sark"  holding  up  in  triumph 
the  abstracted  tail  of  Maggie.  Soon  after  this  the  company 
entered  the  pavilion,  and  the  thousands  outside  were  enter- 
tained as  an  especial  favor  by  the  band  of  the  Eighty- 
seventh  regiment,  while  from  the  many  liquor-booths 
around  the  field  they  could  enjoy  themselves  in  another 
way. 

We  went  up  to  the  monument — which  was  of  more  par- 
ticular interest  to  us  from  the  relics  within — but  admission 


44  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

was  denied  to  all.  Many  persons  were  collected  around 
the  gate,  some  of  whom,  having  come  from  a  great  distance, 
were  anxious  to  see  it ;  but  the  keeper  only  said  such  were 
the  orders  and  he  could  not  disobey  them.  Among  the 
crowd,  a  grandson  of  the  original  Tarn  O'Shanter  was 
shown  to  us.  He  was  a  raw-looking  boy  of  nineteen  or 
twenty,  wearing  a  shepherd's  cap  and  jacket,  and  muttered 
his  disapprobation  very  decidedly  at  not  being  able  to  visit 
the  monument. 

There  were  one  or  two  showers  during  the  day,  and  the 
sky  all  the  time  was  dark  and  lowering,  which  was  unfavor- 
able for  the  celebration,  but  all  were  glad  enough  that  the 
rain  kept  aloof  till  the  ceremonies  were  nearly  over.     The 
speeches  delivered  at  the  dinner — which  appeared  in  the 
papers  next  morning— are  undoubtedly  very  eloquent.     I 
noticed  in  the  remarks  of  Robert  Burns,  in  reply  to  Profes- 
sor Wilson,  an  acknowledgment  which  the  other  speakers 
forgot.     He  said,  "  The  sons  of  Burns  have  grateful  hearts, 
and  to  the  last  hour  of  their  existence  they  will  remember 
the  honor  that  has  been  paid  them  this  day  by  the  noble, 
the  lovely  and  the  talented  of  their  native  land— by  men 
of  genius  and   kindred  spirit  from  our  sister-land;    and 
lastly  they  owe  their  thanks  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  far- 
distant    west,   a   country   of  a    great,   free   and   kindred 
people!"     (Loud  cheers.)      In   connection  with   this  sub- 
ject, I  saw  an  anecdote  of  the  poet  yesterday  which  is  not 
generally  known.     During  his  connection  with  the  excise 
he  was  one  day  at  a  party  where  the  health  of  Pitt — then 
minister — was  proposed  as  "  his  master  and  theirs."      He 
immediately  turned  down  his  glass  and  said,  "  I  will  give 
you  the  health  of  a  far  greater  and  better  man— George 
Washington  !" 

We  left  the  field  early  and  went  back  through  the  muddy 
streets  of  Ayr.  The  street  before  the  railway-office  was 
crowded,  and  there  was  so  dense  a  mass  of  people  on  the 
steps  that  it  seemed  almost  impossible  to  get  near.     Seeing 


EDINBURGH.  45 

no  other  chance,  I  managed  to  take  my  stand  on  the  lowest 
steps,  where  the  pressure  of  the  crowd  behind  and  the 
working  of  the  throng  on  the  steps  raised  me  off  my  feet, 
and  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  carried  me,  compressed 
into  the  smallest  possible  space,  up  the  steps  to  the  door, 
where  the  crowd  burst  in  by  fits,  like  water  rushing  out  of 
a  bottle.  We  esteemed  ourselves  fortunate  in  getting  room 
to  stand  in  an  open  car,  where,  after  a  two  hours'  ride 
through  the  wind  and  pelting  rain,  we  arrived  at  Glasgow. 


CHAPTER    V. 


WALK  FROM  EDINBURGH  OVER  THE  BORDER,  AND  AR- 
RIVAL AT  LONDON. 

We  left  Glasgow  on  the  morning  after  returning  from  the 
Burns  festival,  taking  passage  in  the  open  cars  for  Edin- 
burgh for  six  shillings.  On  leaving  the  dep6t  we  plunged 
into  the  heart  of  the  hill  on  which  Glasgow  Cathedral 
stands,  and  were  whisked  through  darkness  and  sulphury 
smoke  to  daylight  again.  The  cars  bore  us  past  a  spur  of 
the  Highlands,  through  a  beautiful  country  where  women 
were  at  work  in  the  fields,  to  Linlithgow,  the  birthplace  of 
Queen  Mary.  The  majestic  ruins  of  its  once-proud  palace 
stand  on  a  green  meadow  behind  the  town.  In  another 
hour  we  were  walking  through  Edinburgh,  admiring  its 
palace-like  edifices  and  stopping  every  few  minutes  to  gaze 
up  at  some  lofty  monument.  "  Really,"  thought  I,  "  we 
call  Baltimore  the  '  Monumental  City '  for  its  two  marble 
columns,  and  here  is  Edinburgh  with  one  at  every  street- 
corner  !"  These,  too,  not  in  the  midst  of  glaring  red  build- 
ings, where  they  seem  to  have  been  accidentally  dropped, 
but  framed  in  by  lofty  granite  mansions  whose  long  vistas 
make  an  appropriate  background  to  the  picture. 


46  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

We  looked  from  Calton  Hill  on  Salisbury  Crags  and  over 
the  Frith  of  Forth,  then  descended  to  dark  old  Holyrood, 
where  the  memory  of  lovely  Mary  lingers  like  a  stray  sun- 
beam in  her  cold  halls,  and  the  fair  boyish  face  of  Rizzio 
looks  down  from  the  canvas  on  the  armor  of  his  murderer. 
We  threaded  the  Canongate  and  climbed  to  the  castle,  and 
finally,  after  a  day  and  a  half's  sojourn,  buckled  on  our 
knapsacks  and  marched  out  of  the  Northern  Athens.  In  a 
short  time  the  tall  spire  of  Dalkeith  appeared  above  the 
green  wood,  and  we  saw  to  the  right,  perched  on  the  steep 
banks  of  the  Esk,  the  picturesque  cottage  of  Hawthornden, 
where  Drummond  once  lived  in  poetic  solitude.  We  made 
haste  to  cross  the  dreary  waste  of  the  Muirfoot  Hills  before 
nightfall,  from  the  highest  summit  of  which  we  took  a  last 
view  of  Edinburgh  Castle  and  the  Salisbury  crags,  then  blue 
in  the  distance.  Far  to  the  east  were  the  hills  of  Lammer- 
muir,  and  the  country  of  Mid-Lothian  lay  before  us.  It 
was  all  Scott-land.  The  inn  of  Torsonce,  beside  the  Gala 
Water,  was  our  resting-place  for  the  night.  As  we  ap- 
proached Galashiels  the  next  morning,  where  the  bed  of  the 
silver  Gala  is  nearly  emptied  by  a  number  of  dingy  manu- 
factories, the  hills  opened,  disclosing  the  sweet  vale  of  the 
Tweed,  guarded  by  the  triple  peak  of  the  Eildon,  at  whose 
base  lay  nestled  the  village  of  Melrose. 

I  stopped  at  a  bookstore  to  purchase  a  view  of  the  Abbey ; 
to  my  surprise,  nearly  half  the  works  were  by  American 
authors.  There  were  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Channing,  Em- 
erson, Dana,  Ware,  and  many  others.  The  bookseller  told 
me  he  had  sold  more  of  Ware's  Letters  than  any  other  book 
in  his  store,  "  and  also,"  to  use  his  own  words,  "  an  immense 
number  of  the  great  Dr.  Channing."  I  have  seen  English 
editions  of  Percival,  Willis,  Whittier  and  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
but  Bancroft  and  Prescott  are  classed  among  the  "standard 
British  historians." 

Crossing  the  Gala,  we  ascended  a  hill  on  the  road  to  Sel- 
kirk, and,  behold !  the  Tweed  ran  below,  and  opposite,  in 


A  COLD  BATH.  47 

the  midst  of  embowering  trees  planted  by  the  hand  of  Scott, 
rose  the  gray  halls  of  Abbotsford.     We  went  down  a  lane 

to  the  banks  of  the  swift  stream,  but,  finding  no  ferry,  B 

and  I,  as  it  looked  very  shallow,  thought  we  might  save  a 

long  walk  by  wading  across.     F preferred  hunting  for 

a  boat.  We  two  set  out  together  with  our  knapsacks  on 
our  backs  and  our  boots  in  our  hands.  The  current  was 
ice-cold  and  very  swift,  and,  as  the  bed  was  covered  with 
loose  stones,  it  required  the  greatest  care  to  stand  upright. 
Looking  at  the  bottom  through  the  rapid  water  made  my 
head  so  giddy  I  was  forced  to  stop  and  shut  my  eyes.  My 
friend,  who  had  firmer  nerves,  went  plunging  on  to  a  deeper 
and  swifter  part,  where  the  strength  of  the  current  made 
him  stagger  very  unpleasantly.  I  called  to  him  to  return  ; 
the  next  thing  I  saw,  he  gave  a  plunge  and  weut  down  to 
the  shoulder  in  the  cold  flood.  While  he  was  struggling, 
with  a  frightened  expression  of  face,  to  recover  his  footing, 
I  leaned  on  my  staff  and  laughed  till  I  was  on  the  point  of 

falling  also.     To  crown  our  mortification,  F had  found 

a  ferry  a  few  yards  higher  up,  and  was  on  the  opposite 
shore  watching  us  wade  back  again,  my  friend  with  drip- 
ping clothes  and  boots  full  of  Avater.  I  could  not  forgive 
the  pretty  Scotch  damsel  who  rowed  us  across  the  mischiev- 
ous lurking  smile  which  told  that  she  too  had  witnessed  the 
adventure. 

We  found  a  footpath  on  the  other  side  which  led  through 
a  young  forest  to  Abbotsford.  Rude  pieces  of  sculpture 
taken  from  Melrose  Abbey  were  scattered  around  the  gate, 
some  half  buried  in  the  earth  and  overgrown  with  weeds. 
The  niches  in  the  walls  were  filled  with  pieces  of  sculpture, 
and  an  antique  marble  greyhound  reposed  in  the  middle  of 
the  court-yard.  We  rang  the  bell  in  an  outer  vestibule 
ornamented  with  several  pairs  of  antlers,  when  a  lady  ap- 
peared who  from  her  appearance  I  have  no  doubt  was  Mrs. 
Ormand,  the  "  duenna  of  Abbotsford,"  so  humorously  de- 
scribed   by   D'Arlincourt   in   his    Three   Kingdoms.     She 


48  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 


ushered  us  into  the  entrance-hall,  which  has  a  magnificent 
ceiling  of  carved  oak  and  is  lighted  by  lofty  stained  win- 
dows. An  effigy  of  a  knight  in  armor  stood  at  either  end, 
one  holding  a  huge  two-handed  sword  found  on  Bosworth 
Field ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  helmets  and  breastplates 
of  the  olden  time. 

Among  the  curiosities  in  the  armory  are  Napoleon's 
pistols,  the  blunderbuss  of  Hofer,  Rob  Roy's  purse  and  gun 
and  the  offering-box  of  Queen  Mary.  Through  the  folding- 
doors  between  the  dining-room,  drawing-room  and  library 
is  a  fine  vista  terminated  by  a  niche  in  which  stands  Chan- 
trey's  bust  of  Scott.  The  ceilings  are  of  carved  Scottish 
oak  and  the  doors  of  American  cedar.  Adjoining  the 
library  is  his  study,  the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with 
books ;  the  doors  and  windows  are  double,  to  render  it  quiet 
and  undisturbed.  His  books  and  inkstand  are  on  the  table 
and  his  writing-chair  stands  before  it,  as  if  he  had  left  them 
but  a  moment  before.  In  a  little  closet  adjoining,  where  he 
kept  his  private  manuscripts,  are  the  clothes  he  last  wore, 
his  cane  and  belt — to  which  a  hammer  and  small  axe  are 
attached — and  his  sword.  A  narrow  staircase  led  from  the 
study  to  his  sleeping-room  above,  by  which  he  could  come 
down  at  night  and  work  while  his  family  slept.  The  silence 
about  the  place  is  solemn  and  breathless  as  if  it  waited  to 
be  broken  by  his  returning  footstep.  I  felt  an  awe  in 
treading  these  lonely  halls  like  that  which  impressed  me 
before  the  grave  of  Washington — a  feeling  that  hallowed 
the  spot  as  if  there  yet  lingered  a  low  vibration  of  the  lyre, 
though  the  minstrel  had  departed  for  ever. 

Plucking  a  wild  rose  that  grew  near  the  walls,  I  left  Ab- 
botsford,  embosomed  among  the  trees,  and  turned  into  a 
green  lane  that  led  down  to  Melrose.  We  went  immediately 
to  the  abbey,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  village,  near  the 
Tweed.  As  I  approached  the  gate  the  porteress  came  out 
and,  having  scrutinized  me  rather  sharply,  asked  my  name. 
I  told  her.     "  Well,"  she  added,  "  there  is  a  prospect  here 


MELROSE.  49 

for  you."  Thinking  she  alluded  to  the  ruin,  I  replied, 
"  Yes,  the  view  is  certainly  very  fine." — "  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
that,"  she  replied.  "A  young  gentleman  left  a  prospect 
here  for  you ;"  whereupon  she  brought  out  a  spyglass 
which  I  recognized  as  one  that  our  German  comrade  had 
given  to  me.  He  had  gone  on,  and  hoped  to  meet  us  at 
Jedburgh. 

Melrose  is  the  finest  remaining  specimen  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture in  Scotland.  Some  of  the  sculptured  flowers  in  the 
cloister  arches  are  remarkably  beautiful  and  delicate,  and 
the  two  windows — the  south  and  east  oriels — are  of  a  light- 
ness and  grace  of  execution  really  surprising.  We  saw  the 
tomb  of  Michael  Scott,  of  King  Alexander  II.,  and  that  of 
the  Douglas,  marked  with  a  sword.  The  heart  of  Bruce  is 
supposed  to  have  been  buried  beneath  the  high  altar.  The 
chancel  is  all  open  to  the  sky,  and  rooks  build  their  nests 
among  the  wild  ivy  that  climbs  over  the  crumbling  arches. 
One  of  these  came  tamely  down  and  perched  upon  the  hand 
of  our  fair  guide.  By  a  winding  stair  in  one  of  the  towers 
we  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  arch  and  looked  down  on  the 
grassy  floor.  I  sat  on  the  broken  pillar  which  Scott  always 
used  for  a  seat  when  he  visited  the  abbey,  and  read  the  dis- 
interring of  the  magic  book  in  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel." I  never  comprehended  its  full  beauty  till  then  ;  the 
memory  of  Melrose  will  give  it  a  thrilling  interest  in  the 
future.  When  we  left,  I  was  willing  to  say,  with  the 
minstrel, 

"Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair." 

After  seeing  the  home  and  favorite  haunt  of  Scott  we 
felt  a  wish  to  stand  by  his  grave,  but  we  had  Ancrum  Moor 
to  pass  before  night,  and  the  Tweed  was  between  us  and 
Dryburgh  Abbey.  We  did  not  wish  to  try  another  watery 
adventure,  and  therefore  walked  on  to  the  village  of  An- 
crum, where  a  gatekeeper  on  the  road  gave  us  lodging  and 
good  fare  for  a  moderate  price.  Many  of  this  class  prac- 
tise this  double  employment,  and  the  economical  traveller 
4 


50  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

who  looks  more  to  comfort  than  luxury  will  not  fail  to 
patronize  them. 

Next  morning  we  took  a  footpath  over  the  hills  to  Jed- 
burgh. From  the  summit  there  was  a  lovely  view  of  the 
valley  of  the  Teviot,  with  the  blue  Cheviots  in  the  distance. 
I  thought  of  Pringle's  beautiful  farewell : 

"  Our  native  land,  our  native  vale, 
A  long,  a  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 
And  Cheviot's  mountains  blue!" 

The  poet  was  born  in  the  valley  below,  and  one  that  looks 
upon  its  beauty  cannot  wonder  how  his  heart  clung  to  the 
scenes  he  was  leaving.  We  saw  Jedburgh  and  its  majestic 
old  abbey,  and  ascended  the  valley  of  the  Jed  toward  the 
Cheviots.  The  hills,  covered  with  woods  of  a  richness,  and 
even  gorgeous  beauty,  of  foliage,  shut  out  this  lovely  glen 
completely  from  the  world.  I  found  myself  continually 
coveting  the  lonely  dwellings  that  were  perched  on  the 
rocky  heights  or  nestled  like  a  fairy  pavilion  in  the  lap  of 
a  grove.  These  forests  formerly  furnished  the  wood  for  the 
celebrated  Jed  wood  axe  used  in  the  Border  forays. 

As  we  continued  ascending  the  prospect  behind  us  widened 
till  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  Carter  Fell,  whence  there 
is  a  view  of  great  extent  and  beauty.  The  Eildon  Hills, 
though  twenty-five  miles  distant,  seemed  in  the  foreground 
of  the  picture.  With  a  glass  Edinburgh  Castle  might  be 
seen  over  the  dim  outline  of  the  Muirfoot  Hills.  After 
crossing  the  border  we  passed  the  scene  of  the  encounter 
between  Percy  and  Douglas,  celebrated  in  Chevy  Chase, 
and  at  the  lonely  inn  of  Whitelee,  in  the  valley  below,  took 
up  our  quarters  for  the  night. 

Travellers  have  described  the  Cheviots  as  being  bleak  and 
uninteresting.  Although  they  are  bare  and  brown,  to  me 
the  scenery  was  of  a  character  of  beauty  entirely  original. 
They  are  not  rugged  and  broken  like  the  Highlands,  but 


NOVEL  SIGHTSEEING.  51 

lift  their  round  backs  gracefully  from  the  plain,  while  the 
more  distant  ranges  are  clad  in  many  an  airy  hue.  Willis 
quaintly  and  truly  remarks  that  travellers  only  tell  you  the 
picture  produced  in  their  own  brain  by  what  they  see; 
otherwise,  the  world  would  be  like  a  pawnbroker's  shop 
where  each  traveller  wears  the  cast-off  clothes  of  others. 
Therefore  let  no  one  of  a  gloomy  temperament  journeying 
over  the  Cheviots  in  dull  November  arraign  me  for  having 
falsely  praised  their  beauty. 

I  was  somewhat  amused  with  seeing  a  splendid  carriage 
with  footmen  and  outriders  crossing  the  mountain,  the  glo- 
rious landscape  full  in  view,  containing  a  richly-dressed  lady 
fast  asleep.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  meet  carriages  in 
the  Highlands  in  which  the  occupants  are  comfortably 
reading  while  being  whirled  through  the  finest  scenery. 
And,  apropos  of  this  subject,  my  German  friend  related  to 
me  an  incident.  His  brother  was  travelling  on  the  Rhine, 
and  when  in  the  midst  of  the  grandest  scenes  met  a  carriage 
containing  an  English  gentleman  and  lady,  both  asleep, 
while  on  the  seat  behind  was  stationed  an  artist  sketching' 
away  with  all  his  might.  He  asked  the  latter  the  reason  of 
his  industry,  when  he  answered,  "  Oh,  my  lord  wishes  to 
see  every  night  what  he  has  passed  during  the  day,  and  so 
I  sketch  as  we  go  along." 

The  hills,  particularly  on  the  English  side,  are  covered 
with  flocks  of  sheep,  and  lazy  shepherds  lay  basking  in  the 
sun  among  the  purple  heather  with  their  shaggy  black  dogs 
beside  them.  On  many  of  the  hills  are  landmarks  by  which, 
when  the  snow  has  covered  all  the  tracks,  they  can  direct 
their  way.  After  walking  many  miles  through  green  val- 
leys down  which  flowed  the  Red  Water — its  very  name  tell- 
ing of  the  conflicts  which  had  crimsoned  its  tide — we  came 
to  the  moors,  and  ten  miles  of  blacker,  drearier  waste  I 
never  saw.  Before  entering  them  we  passed  the  pretty  little 
village  of  Otterburn,  near  the  scene  of  the  battle.  I  brought 
away  a  wild-flower  that  grew  on  soil  enriched  by  the  blood 


52  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  the  Percys.  On  the  village  inn  is  their  ancient  coat-of- 
arms,  a  lion  rampant  on  a  field  of  gold,  with  the  motto 
"  Esperanee  en  Dieu."  Scarcely  a  house  or  a  tree  enlivened 
the  black  waste,  and  even  the  road  was  marked  on  each  side 
by  high  poles  to  direct  the  traveller  in  winter.  We  were 
glad  when  at  length  the  green  fields  came  again  in  sight, 
and  the  little  village  of  Whelpington  Knowes,  with  its 
old  ivy-grown  church-tower,  welcomed  us  after  the  lonely 
walk. 

As  one  specimen  of  the  intelligence  of  this  part  of  England 
we  saw  a  board  conspicuously  posted  at  the  commencement 
of  a  private  road  declaring  that  "  all  persons  travelling  this 
way  will  be  persecuted."  As  it  led  to  a  church,  however, 
there  may  have  been  a  design  in  the  expression. 

On  the  fifth  day  after  leaving  Edinburgh  we  reached  a 
hill  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Tyne  and  the  German 
Ocean  as  sunset  was  reddening  in  the  west.  A  cloud  of 
coal-smoke  made  us  aware  of  the  vicinity  of  Newcastle.  On 
the  summit  of  the  hill  a  large  cattle-fair  was  being  held, 
and  crowds  of  people  were  gathered  in  and  around  a  camp 
of  gaudily-decorated  tents.  Fires  were  kindled  here  and 
there,  and  drinking,  carousing  and  horse-racing  were  flour- 
ishing in  full  vigor. 

We  set  out  one  morning  to  hunt  the  Roman  wall.  Pass- 
ing the  fine  buildings  in  the  centre  of  the  city  and  the 
lofty  monument  to  Earl  Grey,  we  went  toward  the  western 
gate,  and  soon  came  to  the  ruins  of  a  building  about  whose 
origin  there  could  be  no  doubt.  It  stood  there  blackened 
by  the  rust  of  ages,  a  remnant  of  power  passed  away. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  massive  round-tower  with  its 
projecting  ornaments  such  as  are  often  seen  in  the  ruder 
works  of  the  Romans.  On  each  side  a  fragment  of  wall 
remained  standing,  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  chamber  in 
the  interior  which  was  choked  up  with  rubbish.  There  is 
another  tower,  much  higher,  in  a  public  square  in  another 
part  of  the  city,  a  portion  of  which  is  fitted  up  as  a  dwell- 


A  SCENE  AT  NEWCASTLE.  53 

ing  for  the  family  which  takes  care  of  it ;  but  there  was 
such  a  ridiculous  contrast  between  the  ivy-grown  top  and 
the  handsome  modern  windows  and  doors  of  the  lower  story 
that  it  did  not  impress  me  half  as  much  as  the  other,  with 
all  its  neglect.  These  are  the  farthest  limits  of  that  power 
whose  mighty  works  I  hope  hereafter  to  view  at  the  seat  of 
her  grandeur  and  glory. 

I  witnessed  a  scene  at  Newcastle  that  cannot  soon  be  for- 
gotten, as  it  showed  more'  plainly  than  I  had  before  an 
opportunity  of  observing  the  state  to  which  the  laboring 
classes  of  England  are  reduced.  Hearing  singing  in  the 
street  under  my  window  one  morning,  I  looked  out  and  saw 
a  body  of  men,  apparently  of  the  lower  class,  but  decent 
and  sober-looking,  who  were  singing  in  a  rude  and  plain- 
tive strain  some  ballad  the  purport  of  which  I  could  not 
understand.  On  making  inquiry,  I  discovered  it  was  part 
of  a  body  of  miners  who  about  eighteen  weeks  before,  in 
consequence  of  not  being  able  to  support  their  families  with 
the  small  pittance  allowed  them,  had  struck  for  higher 
wages.  This  their  employers  refused  to  give  them,  and  sent 
to  Wales,  where  they  obtained  workmen  at  the  former  price. 
The  houses  these  laborers  had  occupied  were  all  taken  from 
them,  and  for  eighteen  weeks  they  had  no  other  means  of 
subsistence  than  the  casual  charity  given  them  for  singing 
the  story  of  their  wrongs.  It  made  my  blood  boil  to  hear 
those  tones  wrung  from  the  heart  of  Poverty  by  the  hand 
of  Tyranny.  The  ignorance  permitted  by  the  government 
causes  an  unheard  amount  of  misery  and  degradation.  We 
heard  afterward  in  the  streets  another  company  who  played 
on  musical  instruments.  Beneath  the  proud  swell  of  Eng- 
land's martial  airs  there  sounded  to  my  ears  a  tone  whose 
gathering  murmur  will  make  itself  heard  ere  long  by  the 
dull  ears  of  Power. 

At  last,  at  the  appointed  time,  we  found  ourselves  on 
board  the  London  Merchant  in  the  muddy  Tyne  waiting 
for  the  tide  to  rise  high  enough  to  permit  us  to  descend  the 


54  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

river.  There  is  great  competition  among  the  steamboats 
this  summer,  and  the  price  of  passage  to  London  is  reduced 
to  five  and  ten  shillings.  The  second  cabin,  however,  is  a 
place  of  tolerable  comfort,  and,  as  the  steward  had  promised 
to  keep  berths  for  us,  we  engaged  passage.  Following  the 
windings  of  the  narrow  river,  we  passed  Sunderland  and 
Tynemouth,  where  it  expands  into  the  German  Ocean. 
The  water  was  barely  stirred  by  a  gentle  wind,  and  little 
resembled  the  stormy  sea  I  expected  to  find  it.  We  glided 
over  the  smooth  surface,  watching  the  blue  line  of  the  dis- 
tant shore  till  dark,  when  I  went  below,  expecting  to  enjoy 
a  few  hours'  oblivion  ;  but  the  faithless  steward  had  given 
up  the  promised  berth  to  another,  and  it  was  only  with  dif- 
ficulty that  I  secured  a  seat  by  the  cabin  table,  where  I 
dozed  half  the  night  with  my  head  on  my  arms.  It  grew 
at  last  too  close  and  wearisome ;  I  went  up  on  deck  and  lay 
down  on  the  windlass,  taking  care  to  balance  myself  well 
before  going  to  sleep.  The  earliest  light  of  dawn  awoke 
me  to  a  consciousness  of  damp  clothes  and  bruised  limbs. 
We  were  in  sight  of  the  low  shore  the  whole  day,  sometimes 
seeing  the  dim  outline  of  a  church  or  group  of  trees  over 
the  downs  or  flat  beds  of  sand  which  border  the  eastern 
coast  of  England.  About  dark  the  red  light  of  the  Nore  was 
seen,  and  we  hoped  before  many  hours  to  be  in  London.  The 
lights  of  Gravesend  were  passed,  but  about  ten  o'clock,  as  we 
entered  the  narrow  channel  of  the  Thames,  we  struck  another 
steamboat  in  the  darkness,  and  were  obliged  to  cast  anchor 
for  some  time.  When  I  went  on  deck  in  the  gray  light  of 
morning  again,  we  were  gliding  up  a  narrow,  muddy  river, 
between  rows  of  gloomy  buildings,  with  many  vessels  lying 
at  anchor.  It  grew  lighter,  till,  as  we  turned  a  point, 
right  before  me  lay  a  vast  crowd  of  vessels,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance, above  the  wilderness  of  buildings,  stood  a  dim 
gigantic  dome  in  the  sky.  What  a  bound  my  heart  gave 
at  the  sight !  And  the  tall  pillar  that  stood  near  it !  I  did 
not  need  a  second  glance  to  recognize  the  Monument.     I 


LONDON.  55 

knew  the  majestic  bridge  that  spanned  the  river  above,  but 
on  the  right  bank  stood  a  cluster  of  massive  buildings 
crowned  with  many  a  turret  that  attracted  my  eye.  A 
crowd  of  old  associations  pressed  bewilderingly  upon  the 
mind  to  see  standing  there,  grim  and  dark  with  many  a 
bloody  page  of  England's  history,  the  Tower  of  London. 
The  morning  sky  was  as  yet  but  faintly  obscured  by  the 
coal-smoke,  and  in  the  misty  light  of  coming  sunrise  all 
objects  seemed  grander  than  their  wont.  In  spite  of  the 
thrilling  interest  of  the  scene,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
Byron's  ludicrous  but  most  expressive  description : 

"A  mighty  mass  of  brick  and  smoke  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusty,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Can  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 
Of  masts  ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy  ; 
A  huge  dun  cupola  like  a  fool's-cap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head,— and  there  is  London  town  !" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SOME   OF   THE   "  SIGHTS "    OF    LONDON. 

In  the  course  of  time  we  came  to  anchor  in  the  stream  ; 
skiffs  from  the  shore  pulled  alongside,  and  after  some  little 
quarrelling,  we  were  safely  deposited  in  one  with  a  party 
who  desired  to  be  landed  at  the  Tower  stairs. 

The  dark  walls  frowned  above  us  as  we  mounted  from 
the  water  and  passed  into  an  open  square  on  the  outside  of 
the  moat.  The  laborers  were  about  commencing  work,  the 
fashionable  day  having  just  closed,  but  there  was  still 
noise  and  bustle  enough  in  the  streets,  particularly  when 
we  reached  Whitechapel,  part  of  the  great  thoroughfare 


56  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

extending  through  the  heart  of  London  to  Westminster 
Abbey  and  the  Parliament  buildings.  Farther  on,  through 
Leadenhall  street  and  Fleet  street,  what  a  world !  Here 
come  the  ever-thronging,  ever-rolling  waves  of  life,  pressing 
and  whirling  on  in  their  tumultuous  career.  Here  day  and 
night  pours  the  stream  of  human  beings,  seeming  amid  the 
roar  and  din  and  clatter  of  the  passing  vehicles  like  the 
tide  of  some  great  combat.  How  lonely  it  makes  one  to 
stand  still  and  feel  that  of  all  the  mighty  throng  which  di- 
vides itself  around  him  not  a  being  knows  or  cares  for  him ! 
What  knows  he,  too,  of  the  thousands  who  pass  him  by  ? 
How  many  who  bear  the  impress  of  godlike  virtue  or  hide 
beneath  a  goodly  countenance  a  heart  black  with  crime ! 
How  many  fiery  spirits,  all  glowing  with  hope  for  the  yet 
unclouded  future,  or  brooding  over  a  darkened  and  deso- 
late past  in  the  agony  of  despair!  There  is  a  sublimity  in 
this  human  Niagara  that  makes  one  look  on  his  own  race 
with  something  of  awe. 

We  walked  down  the  Thames,  through  the  narrow  streets 
of  Wapping.  Over  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  is  a  large  cir- 
cular building  with  a  dome  to  light  the  entrance  below. 
Paying  the  fee  of  a  penny,  we  descended  by  a  winding 
staircase  to  the  bottom,  which  is  seventy-three  feet  below 
the  surface.  The  carriage-way,  still  unfinished,  will  extend 
farther  into  the  city.  From  the  bottom  the  view  of  the 
two  arches  of  the  tunnel,  brilliantly  lighted  with  gas,  is 
very  fine ;  it  has  a  much  less  heavy  and  gloomy  appearance 
than  I  expected.  As  we  walked  along  under  the  bed  of 
the  river  two  or  three  girls  at  one  end  began  playing  on  the 
French  horn  and  bugle,  and  the  echoes,  when  not  too  deep 
to  confuse  the  melody,  were  remarkably  beautiful.  Between 
the  arches  of  the  division  separating  the  two  passages  are 
shops  occupied  by  venders  of  fancy  articles,  views  of  the 
tunnel,  engravings,  etc.  In  the  middle  is  a  small  printing 
press  where  a  sheet  containing  a  description  of  the  whole 
work  is  printed  for  those  who  desire  it.     As   I   was   no 


ST.   PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL.  57 

stranger  to  this  art,  I  requested  the  boy  to  let  me  print  one 
myself,  but  he  had  such  a  bad  roller  I  did  not  succeed  in 
getting  a  good  impression.  The  air  within  is  somewhat 
damp,  but  fresh  and  agreeably  cool,  and  one  can  scarcely 
realize,  in  walking  along  the  light  passage,  that  a  river  is 
rolling  above  his  head.  The  immense  solidity  and  com- 
pactness of  the  structure  precludes  the  danger  of  accident, 
each  of  the  sides  being  arched  outward,  so  that  the  heaviest 
pressure  only  strengthens  the  whole.  It  will  long  remain 
a  noble  monument  of  human  daring  and  ingenuity. 

St.  Paul's  is  on  a  scale  of  grandeur  excelling  everything 
I  have  yet  seen.  The  dome  seems  to  stand  in  the  sky  as 
you  look  up  to  it ;  the  distance  from  which  you  view  it, 
combined  with  the  atmosphere  of  London,  gives  it  a  dim, 
shadowy  appearance  that  perfectly  startles  one  with  its  im- 
mensity. The  roof  from  which  the  dome  springs  is  itself 
as  high  as  the  spires  of  most  other  churches  ;  blackened  for 
two  hundred  years  with  the  coal-smoke  of  London,  it  stands 
like  a  relic  of  the  giant  architecture  of  the  early  world. 
The  interior  is  what  one  would  expect  to  behold  after  view- 
ing the  outside.  A  maze  of  grand  arches  on  every  side 
encompasses  the  dome,  which  you  gaze  up  at  as  at  the  sky, 
and  from  every  pillar  and  wall  look  down  the  marble  forms 
of  the  dead.  There  is  scarcely  a  vacant  niche  left  in  all 
this  mighty  hall,  so  many  are  the  statues  that  meet  one  on 
every  side.  With  the  exceptions  of  John  Howard,  Sir 
Astley  Cooper  and  Wren,  whose  monument  is  the  church 
itself,  they  are  all  to  military  men.  I  thought  if  they  had 
all  been  removed  except  Howard's  it  would  better  have 
suited  such  a  temple  and  the  great  soul  it  commemorated. 

I  never  was  more  impressed  with  the  grandeur  of  human 
invention  than  when  ascending  the  dome.  I  could  with 
difficulty  conceive  the  means  by  which  such  a  mighty  edi- 
fice had  been  lifted  into  the  air.  That  small  frame  of  Sir 
Christopher  Wren  must  have  contained  a  mind  capable  of 
vast  conceptions.     The  dome  is  like  the  summit  of  a  moun- 


58  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

tain,  so  wide  is  the  prospect  and  so  great  the  pile  upon 
which  you  stand.  London  lay  beneath  us  like  an  ant-hill 
with  the  black  insects  swarming  to  and  fro  in  their  long 
avenues,  the  sound  of  their  employments  coming  up  like  the 
roar  of  the  sea.  A  cloud  of  coal-smoke  hung  over  it, 
through  which  many  a  pointed  spire  was  thrust  up ;  some- 
times the  wind  would  blow  it  aside  for  a  moment,  and  the 
thousands  of  red  roofs  would  shine  out  clearer.  The 
bridged  Thames,  covered  with  craft  of  all  sizes,  wound  be- 
neath us  like  a  ringed  and  spotted  serpent.  The  scene  was 
like  an  immense  circular  picture  in  the  blue  frame  of  the 
hills  around. 

Continuing  our  way  up  Fleet  street — which,  notwith- 
standing the  gayety  of  its  shops  and  its  constant  bustle,  has 
an  antique  appearance — we  came  to  the  Temple  Bar,  the 
western  boundary  of  the  ancient  city.  In  the  inside  of  the 
middle  arch  the  old  gates  are  still  standing.  From  this 
point  we  entered  the  new  portion  of  the  city,  which  wore 
an  air  of  increasing  splendor  as  we  advanced.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  Strand  and  Trafalgar  Square  is  truly  magnifi- 
cent. Fancy  every  house  in  Broadway  a  store,  all  built 
of  light  granite,  the  Park  stripped  of  all  its  trees  and 
paved  with  granite  and  a  lofty  column  in  the  centre,  double 
the  crowd  and  the  tumult  of  business,  and  you  will  have 
some  idea  of  the  view. 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  into  St.  James's  Park  among  the 
trees  and  flowers  again.  Here  beautiful  winding  walks  led 
around  little  lakes  in  which  were  hundreds  of  water-fowl 
swimming.  Groups  of  merry  children  were  sporting  on 
the  green  lawn,  enjoying  their  privilege  of  roaming  every- 
where at  will,  while  the  older  bipeds  were  confined  to  the 
regular  walks.  At  the  western  end  stood  Buckingham 
Palace,  looking  over  the  trees  toward  St.  Paul's  ;  through 
the  grove  on  the  eminence  above,  the  towers  of  St.  James's 
could  be  seen.  But  there  was  a  dim  building  with  two 
lofty  square  towers  decorated  with  a  profusion  of  pointed 


A  GALAXY  OF  GENIUS.  59 

Gothic  pinnacles  that  I  looked  at  with  more  interest  than 
these  appendages  of  royalty.  I  could  not  linger  long  in 
its  vicinity,  but,  going  back  again  by  the  Horse  Guards, 
took  the  road  to  Westminster  Abbey. 

We  approached  by  the  general  entrance,  Poet's  Corner. 
I  hardly  stopped  to  look  at  the  elaborate  exterior  of  Henry 
Vllth's  Chapel,  but  passed  on  to  the  door.  On  entering, 
the  first  thing  that  met  my  eyes  were  the  words,  "  Oh  rare 
Ben  Jonson,"  under  his  bust.  Near  by  stood  the  monu- 
ments of  Spenser  and  Gay,  and  a  few  paces  farther  looked 
down  the  sublime  countenance  of  Milton.  Never  was  a 
spot  so  full  of  intense  interest.  The  light  was  just  dim 
enough  to  give  it  a  solemn,  religious  appearance,  making 
the  marble  forms  of  poets  and  philosophers  so  shadowy  and 
impressive  that  I  felt  as  if  standing  in  their  living  presence. 
Every  step  called  up  some  mind  linked  with  the  associations 
of  my  childhood.  There  was  the  gentle  feminine  counte- 
nance of  Thomson  and  the  majestic  head  of  Dryden ;  Ad- 
dison with  his  classic  features,  and  Gray,  full  of  the  fire  of 
lofty  thought.  In  another  chamber  I  paused  long  before 
the  ashes  of  Shakespeare,  and  while  looking  at  the  monu- 
ment of  Garrick  started  to  find  that  I  stood  upon  his  grave. 
What  a  glorious  galaxy  of  genius  is  here  collected !  what 
a  constellation  of  stars  whose  light  is  immortal !  The  mind 
is  completely  fettered  by  their  spirit.  Everything  is  for- 
gotten but  the  mighty  dead  who  still  "  rule  us  from  their 
urns." 

The  chapel  of  Henry  VII.,  which  we  next  entered,  is  one 
of  the  most  elaborate  specimens  of  Gothic  workmanship  in 
the  world.  If  the  first  idea  of  the  Gothic  arch  sprung  from 
observing  the  forms  of  trees,  this  chapel  must  resemble  the 
first  conceptions  of  that  order,  for  the  fluted  columns  rise 
up  like  tall  trees,  branching  out  at  the  top  into  spreading 
capitals  covered  with  leaves  and  supporting  arches  of  the 
ceiling  resembling  a  leafy  roof. 

The  side-chapels  are  filled  with  tombs  of  knightly  fami- 


60  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

lies,  the  husband  and  wife  lying  on  their  backs  on  the 
tombs  with  their  hands  clasped,  while  their  children,  about 
the  size  of  dolls,  are  kneeling  around.  Numberless  are  the 
barons  and  earls  and  dukes  whose  grim  effigies  stare  from 
their  tombs.  In  opposite  chapels  are  the  tombs  of  Mary 
and  Elizabeth,  and  near  the  former  that  of  Darnley.  After 
having  visited  many  of  the  scenes  of  her  life,  it  was  with 
no  ordinary  emotion  that  I  stood  by  the  sepulchre  of  Mary. 
How  differently  one  looks  upon  it  and  upon  that  of  the 
proud  Elizabeth ! 

We  descended  to  the  chapel  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
within  the  splendid  shrine  of  which  repose  his  ashes.  Here 
we  were  shown  the  chair  on  which  the  English  monarchs 
have  been  crowned  for  several  hundred  years.  Under  the 
seat  is  the  stone,  brought  from  the  abbey  of  Scone,  whereon 
the  kings  of  Scotland  were  crowned.  The  chair  is  of  oak, 
carved  and  hacked  over  with  names,  and  on  the  bottom 
some  one  has  recorded  his  name  with  the  fact  that  he  once 
slept  in  it.  We  sat  down  and  rested  in  it  without  cere- 
mony. Passing  along  an  aisle  leading  to  the  grand  hall, 
we  saw  the  tomb  of  Aymer  de  Valence,  a  knight  of  the 
Crusades.  Near  here  is  the  hall  where  the  knights  of  the 
order  of  Bath  met.  Over  each  seat  their  dusty  banners  are 
still  hanging,  each  with  its  crest,  and  their  armor  is  rusting 
upon  the  wall.  It  seemed  like  a  banqueting-hall  of  the 
olden  time  where  the  knights  had  left  their  seats  for  a  mo- 
ment vacant.  Entering  the  nave,  we  were  lost  in  the  wil- 
derness of  sculpture.  Here  stood  the  forms  of  Pitt,  Fox, 
Burke,  Sheridan  and  Watts,  from  the  chisels  of  Chantrey, 
Bacon  and  Westmacott.  Farther  down  were  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  and  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller;  opposite,  Andre  and 
Paoli  the  Italian,  who  died  here  in  exile.  How  can  I  con- 
vey an  idea  of  the  scene  ?  Notwithstanding  all  the  descrip- 
tions I  had  read,  I  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  reality, 
nor  could  I  have  anticipated  the  hushed  and  breathless  in- 
terest with  which  I  paced  the  dim  aisles,  gazing,  at  every 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY.  61 

step,  on  the  last  resting-place  of  some  great  and  familiar 
name.  A  place  so  sacred  to  all  who  inherit  the  English 
tongue  is  worthy  of  a  special  pilgrimage  across  the  deep. 
To  those  who  are  unable  to  visit  it,  a  description  may  be 
interesting ;  but  so  far  does  it  fall  short  of  the  scene  itself 
that  if  I  thought  it  would  induce  a  few  of  our  wealthy 
idlers,  or  even  those  who,  like  myself,  must  travel  with  toil 
and  privation,  to  come  hither,  I  would  write  till  the  pen 
dropped  from  my  hand. 

More  than  twenty  grand  halls  of  the  British  Museum  are 
devoted  to  antiquities,  and  include  the  Elgin  Marbles — the 
spoils  of  the  Parthenon — the  Fellows  Marbles,  brought 
from  the  ancient  city  of  Xanthus,  and  Sir  William  Hamil- 
ton's collection  of  Italian  antiquities.  It  was  painful  to  see 
the  friezes  of  the  Parthenon,  broken  and  defaced  as  they 
are,  in  such  a  place.  Rather  let  them  moulder  to  dust  on 
the  ruin  from  which  they  were  torn,  shining  through  the 
blue  veil  of  the  Grecian  atmosphere  from  the  summit  of 
the  Acropolis. 

The  National  Gallery,  on  Trafalgar  Square,  is  open  four 
days  in  the  week  to  the  public.  The  "  Raising  of  Lazarus," 
by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  is  considered  the  gem  of  the  col- 
lection, but  my  unschooled  eyes  could  not  view  it  as  such. 
It  is  also  remarkable  for  having  been  transferred  from  wood 
to  canvas  without  injury.  This  delicate  operation  was  ac- 
complished by  gluing  the  panel  on  which  it  was  painted  flat 
on  a  smooth  table  and  planing  the  wood  gradually  away 
till  the  coat  of  hardened  paint  alone  remained.  A  proper 
canvas  was  then  prepared,  covered  with  a  strong  cement  and 
laid  on  the  back  of  the  picture,  which  adhered  firmly  to  it. 
The  owner's  nerves  must  have  had  a  severe  trial  if  he  had 
courage  to  watch  the  operation.  I  was  enraptured  with 
Murillo's  pictures  of  St.  John  and  the  Holy  Family.  St. 
John  is  represented  as  a  boy  in  the  woods,  fondling  a  lamb. 
It  is  a  glorious  head.  The  dark  curls  cluster  around  his 
fair  brow,  and  his  eyes  seem  already  glowing  with  the  fire 


62  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  future  inspiration.  There  is  an  innocence,  a  childish 
sweetness  of  expression,  in  the  countenance,  which  makes 
one  love  to  gaze  upon  it.  Both  of  these  paintings  were 
constantly  surrounded  by  ladies,  and  they  certainly  de- 
served the  preference.  In  the  rooms  devoted  to  English 
artists  there  are  many  of  the  finest  works  of  West,  Rey- 
nolds, Hogarth  and  Wilkie. 

We  spent  a  day  in  visiting  the  lungs  of  London,  as  the 
two  grand  parks  have  been  called.  From  the  Strand 
through  the  Regent  Circus,  the  centre  of  the  fashionable 
part  of  the  city,  we  passed  to  Piccadilly,  calling  on  our  way 
to  see  our  old  friends  the  Iowas.  They  were  at  the  Egyp- 
tian Hall,  in  connection  with  Catlin's  Indian  collection. 
The  old  braves  knew  us  at  once,  particularly  Blister  Feet, 
who  used  often  to  walk  a  line  on  deck  with  me  at  sea.  Far- 
ther along  Piccadilly  is  Wellington's  mansion  of  Apsley 
House,  and  nearly  opposite  it,  in  the  corner  of  Hyde  Park, 
stands  the  colossal  statue  of  Achilles  cast  from  cannon 
taken  at  Salamanca  and  Vittoria.  The  park  resembles  an 
open  common,  with  here  and  there  a  grove  of  trees,  inter- 
sected by  carriage-roads.  It  is  like  getting  into  the  coun- 
try again  to  be  out  on  its  broad,  green  field,  Avith  the  city 
seen  dimly  around  through  the  smoky  atmosphere.  We 
walked  for  a  mile  or  two  along  the  shady  avenues  and  over 
the  lawns,  having  a  view  of  the  princely  terraces  and  gar- 
dens on  one  hand  and  the  gentle  outline  -)f  Primrose  Hill 
on  the  other.  Regent's  Park  itself  covers  a  space  of  nearly 
four  hundred  acres. 

But  if  London  is  unsurpassed  in  splendor,  it  has  also  its 
corresponding  share  of  crime.  Notwithstanding  the  large 
and  efficient  body  of  police,  who  do  much  toward  the  con- 
trol of  vice,  one  sees  enough  of  degradation  and  brutality 
in  a  short  time  to  make  his  heart  sick.  Even  the  public 
thoroughfares  are  thronged  at  night  with  characters  of  the 
lowest  description,  and  it  is  not  expedient  to  go  through 
many  of  the  narrow  by-haunts  of  the  old  city  in  the  day- 


A  CHEAP  TOUR.  63 

time.  The  police,  who  are  ever  on  the  watch,  immediately 
seize  and  carry  off'  any  offender,  but  from  the  statements 
of  persons  who  have  had  an  opportunity  of  observing,  as 
well  as  from  my  own  slight  experience,  I  am  convinced  that 
there  is  an  untold  amount  of  misery  and  crime.  London 
is  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world,  but  there  is  reason  to 
believe  it  is  one  of  the  curses  of  the  world  also,  though,  in 
fact,  nothing  but  an  active  and  unceasing  philanthropy  can 
prevent  any  city  from  becoming  so. 

Aug.  22. — I  have  now  been  six  days  in  London,  and  by 
making  good  use  of  my  feet  and  eyes  have  managed  to  be- 
come familiar  with  almost  every  object  of  interest  within  its 
precincts.  Having  a  plan  mapped  out  for  the  day,  I  started 
from  my  humble  lodgings  at  the  Aldgate  Coffee-House, 
where  I  slept  off  fatigue  for  a  shilling  a  night,  and  walked 
up  Cheapside  or  down  Whiteehapel,  as  the  case  might  be, 
hunting  out  my  way  to  churches,  halls  and  theatres.  In 
this  way,  at  a  trifling  expense,  I  have  perhaps  seen  as  much 
as  many  who  spend  here  double  the  time  and  ten  times  the 
money.  Our  whole  tour  from  Liverpool  hither,  by  way  of 
Ireland  and  Scotland,  cost  us  but  twenty-five  dollars  each, 
although,  except  in  one  or  two  cases,  we  denied  ourselves 
no  necessary  comfort.  This  shows  that  the  glorious  priv- 
ilege of  looking  on  the  scenes  of  the  Old  World  need  not  be 
confined  to  people  of  wealth  and  leisure.  It  may  be  enjoyed 
by  all  who  can  occasionally  forego  a  little  bodily  comfort 
for  the  sake  of  mental  and  spiritual  gain. 

We  leave  this  afternoon  for  Dover.  To-morrow  I  shall 
dine  in  Belgium. 


64  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

FLIGHT   THROUGH    BELGIUM. 

Bruges. — On  the  Continent  at  last!  How  strangely 
look  the  century-old  towers,  antique  monuments  and  quaint, 
narrow  streets  of  the  Flemish  cities !  It  is  an  agreeable, 
and  yet  a  painful,  sense  of  novelty  to  stand  for  the  first  time 
in  the  midst  of  a  people  whose  language  and  manners  are 
different  from  one's  own.  The  old  buildings  around,  linked 
with  many  a  stirring  association  of  past  history,  gratify  the 
glowing  anticipations  with  which  one  has  looked  forward  to 
seeing  them,  and  the  fancy  is  busy  at  work  reconciling  the 
real  scene  with  the  ideal ;  but  the  want  of  a  communication 
with  the  living  world  about  walls  one  up  with  a  sense  of 
loneliness  he  could  not  before  have  conceived.  I  envy  the 
children  in  the  streets  of  Bruges  their  childish  language. 

Yesterday  afternoon  we  came  from  London,  through  the 
green  wooded  lawns  and  vales  of  England  to  Dover,  which 
we  reached  at  sunset,  passing  by  a  long  tunnel  through  the 
lofty  Shakespeare  Cliff'.  We  had  barely  time  before  it  grew 
dark  to  ascend  the  cliff.  The  glorious  coast  view  looked 
still  wilder  in  the  gathering  twilight,  which  soon  hid  from 
our  sight  the  dim  hills  of  France.  On  the  cliff  opposite 
frowned  the  massive  battlements  of  the  castle,  guarding  the 
town,  which  lay  in  a  nook  of  the  rocks  below. 

As  the  Ostend  boat  was  to  leave  at  four  in  the  morning, 
my  cousin  aroused  us  at  three,  and  we  felt  our  way  down 
stairs  in  the  dark.  But  the  landlord  was  reluctant  to  part 
with  us ;  we  stamped  and  shouted  and  rang  bells  till  the 
whole  house  was  in  an  uproar,  for  the  door  was  double- 
locked  and  the  steamboat  bell  began  to  sound.  At  last  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer ;  we  gave  a  quick  utterance  to  our 
overflowing  wrath,  and  rushed  down  to  the  boat  but  a 
second  or  two  before  it  left. 


OSTEND.  65 

The  water  of  the  Channel  was  smooth  as  glass,  and  as  the 
sun  rose  the  far  chalky  cliffs  gleamed  along  the  horizon,  a 
belt  of  fire.  I  waved  a  good-bye  to  Old  England,  and  then 
turned  to  see  the  spires  of  Dunkirk,  which  were  visible  in 
the  distance  before  us.  On  the  low  Belgian  coast  we  could 
see  trees  and  steeples,  resembling  a  mirage  over  the  level 
surface  of  the  sea ;  at  length,  about  ten  o'clock,  the  square 
tower  of  Ostend  came  in  sight.  The  boat  passed  into  a  long 
muddy  basin  in  which  many  unwieldy,  red-sailed  Dutch 
craft  were  lying,  and  stopped  beside  a  high  pier.  Here, 
amid  the  confusion  of  three  languages,  an  officer  came  on 
board  and  took  charge  of  our  passports  and  luggage.  As 
we  could  not  get  the  former  for  two  or  three  hours,  we  did 
not  hurry  the  passing  of  the  latter,  and  went  on  shore  quite 
unincumbered  for  a  stroll  about  the  city,  disregarding  the 
cries  of  the  hackney-coachmen  on  the  pier,  "  Hotel  d'  Angle- 
terre!"  "  Hotel  des  Bains!"  and  another  who  called  out  in 
English,  "  I  recommend  you  to  the  Royal  Hotel,  sir  !" 

There  is  little  to  be  seen  in  Ostend.  We  wandered 
through  long  rows  of  plain  yellow  houses  trying  to  read  the 
French  and  Low  Dutch  signs,  and  at  last  came  out  on  the 
wall  near  the  sea.  A  soldier  motioned  us  back  as  we  at- 
tempted to  ascend  it,  and,  muttering  some  unintelligible 
words,  pointed  to  a  narrow  street  near.  Following  this  out 
of  curiosity,  we  crossed  the  moat,  and  found  ourselves  on 
the  great  bathing-beach.  To  get  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
servants  who  immediately  surrounded  us,  we  jumped  into 
one  of  the  little  wagons  and  were  driven  out  into  the  surf. 

To  be  certain  of  fulfilling  the  railroad  regulations,  we 
took  our  seats  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  time.  The 
dark  walls  of  Ostend  soon  vanished,  and  we  were  whirled 
rapidly  over  a  country  perfectly  level,  but  highly  fertile  and 
well  cultivated.  Occasionally  there  was  a  ditch  or  row  of 
trees,  but  otherwise  there  was  no  division  between  the  fields, 
and  the  plain  stretched  unbroken  away  into  the  distance. 
The  twenty  miles  to  Bruges  we  made  in  forty  minutes.  The 
5 


66  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

streets  of  this  antique  city  are  narrow  and  crooked,  and  the 
pointed,  ornamented  gables  of  the  houses  produce  a  novel 
impression  on  one  who  has  been  accustomed  to  the  green 
American  forests.  Then  there  was  the  endless  sound  of 
wooden  shoes  clattering  over  the  rough  pavements,  and 
people  talking  in  that  most  unmusical  of  all  languages,  Low 
Dutch.  Walking  at  random  through  the  streets,  we  came 
by  chance  upon  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  I  shall  long 
remember  my  first  impression  of  the  scene  Avithin.  The 
lofty  Gothic  ceiling  arched  far  above  my  head  and  through 
the  stained  windows  the  light  came  but  dimly ;  it  was  all 
still,  solemn  and  religious.  A  few  worshippers  were  kneel- 
ing in  silence  before  some  of  the  shrines,  and  the  echo  of 
my  tread  seemed  like  a  profaning  sound.  On  every  side 
were  pictures,  saints  and  gilded  shrines.  A  few  steps  re- 
moved one  from  the  bustle  and  din  of  the  crowd  to  the  still- 
ness and  solemnity  of  the  holy  retreat. 

We  learned  from  the  guide,  whom  we  had  engaged  be- 
cause he  spoke  a  few  words  of  English,  that  there  was  still 
a  treckshuyt  line  on  the  canals,  and  that  one  boat  leaves  to- 
night at  ten  o'clock  for  Ghent.  Wishing  to  try  this  old 
Dutch  method  of  travelling,  he  took  us  about  half  a  mile 
alomr  the  Ghent  road  to  the  canal,  where  a  moderate-sized 
boat  was  lying.  Our  baggage  deposited  in  the  plainly-fur- 
nished cabin,  I  ran  back  to  Bruges,  although  it  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  dark,  to  get  a  sight  of  the  belfry ;  for  Longfel- 
low's lines  had  been  running  through  my  head  all  day : 

"  In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old  and  brown  ; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches  o'er   the 
town." 

And,  having  found  the  square  brown  tower  in  one  corner 
of  the  open  market-square,  we  waited  to  hear  the  chimes, 
which  are  said  to  be  the  finest  in  Europe.  They  rang  out 
at  last  with  a  clear  silvery  tone  most  beautifully  musical  in- 
deed.    We  then  returned  to  the  boat  in  the  twilight.     We 


RAILROAD-TRAVELLING.  67 

were  to  leave  in  about  an  hour,  according  to  the  arrange 
ments,  but  as  yet  there  was  no  sound  to  be  heard,  and  we 
were  the  only  tenants.  However,  trusting  to  Dutch  regu- 
larity, we  went  to  sleep  in  the  full  confidence  of  awakening 
in  Ghent. 

I  awoke  once  in  the  night  and  saw  the  dark  branches  of 
trees  passing  before  the  window,  but  there  was  no  percepti- 
ble sound  nor  motion  ;  the  boat  glided  along  like  a  dream, 
and  we  were  awakened  next  morning  by  its  striking  against 
the  pier  at  Ghent.  After  paying  three  francs  for  the  whole 
night-journey,  the  captain  gave  us  a  guide  to  the  railroad- 
station,  and,  as  we  had  nearly  an  hour  before  the  train  left, 
I  went  to  see  the  cathedral  of  St.  Bavon.  After  leaving: 
Ghent  the  road  passes  through  a  beautiful  country  culti- 
vated like  a  garden.  The  Dutch  passion  for  flowers  is  dis- 
played in  the  gardens  around  the  cottages ;  even  every  va- 
cant foot  of  ground  along  the  railway  is  planted  with  roses 
and  dahlias.  At  Ghent,  the  morning  being  fair,  we  took 
seats  in  the  open  cars.  About  noon  it  commenced  raining, 
and  our  situation  was  soon  anything  but  comfortable.  My 
cousin  had,  fortunately,  a  waterproof  Indian  blanket  with 
him  which  he  had  purchased  in  the  "Far  West,"  and  by 
wrapping  this  around  all  three  of  us  we  kept  partly  dry.  ] 
was  much  amused  at  the  plight  of  a  party  of  young  Eng- 
lishmen,who  were  in  the  same  car ;  one  of  them  held  a  lit- 
tle parasol  which  just  covered  his  hat,  and  sent  the  water 
in  streams  down  on  his  back  and  shoulders. 

We  had  a  misty  view  of  Liege  through  the  torrents  of 
rain,  and  then  dashed  away  into  the  wild  mountain-scenery 
of  the  Meuse.  Steep,  rocky  hills  covered  with  pine  and 
crowned  with  ruined  towers  hemmed  in  the  winding  and 
swollen  river,  and  the  wet,  cloudy  sky  seemed  to  rest  like  a 
canopy  on  their  summits.  Instead  of  threading  their  mazy 
defiles,  we  plunged  directly  into  the  mountain's  heart,  flew 
over  the  narrow  valley  on  lofty  and  light-sprung  arches, 
and  went  again  into  the  darkness.     At  Verviers  our  bag- 


68  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

gage  was  weighed,  examined  and  transferred,  with  ourselves, 
to  a  Prussian  train.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  disputing 
on  the  occasion.  A  lady  who  had  a  dog  in  a  large  willow 
basket  was  not  allowed  to  retain  it,  nor  would  they  take  it 
as  baggage.  The  matter  was  finally  compromised  by  their 
sending  the  basket,  obliging  her  to  carry  the  dog — which  was 
none  of  the  smallest — in  her  arms.  The  next  station  bore 
the  sign  of  the  black  eagle,  and  here  our  passports  were 
obliged  to  be  given  up. 

Advancing  through  long  ranges  of  wooded  hills,  we  saw, 
at  length,  in  the  dull  twilight  of  a  rainy  day,  the  old  kingly 
city  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  on  a  plain  below  us.  After  a  scene 
at  the  custom-house,  where  our  baggage  was  reclaimed  with 
tickets  given  at  Verviers,  we  drove  to  the  Hotel  du  Rhin, 
and  while  warming  our  shivering  limbs  and  drying  our 
damp  garments  felt  tempted  to  exclaim  with  the  old  Italian 
author,  "O  holy  and  miraculous  tavern!" 

The  cathedral,  with  its  lofty  Gothic  tower,  was  built  by 
the  emperor  Otho  in  the  tenth  century.  It  seems  at  present 
to  be  undergoing  repairs,  for  a  large  scaffold  shut  out  the 
dome.  The  long  hall  was  dim  with  incense-smoke  as  we 
entered,  and  the  organ  sounded  through  the  high  arches 
with  an  effect  that  startled  me.  The  windows  glowed  with 
the  forms  of  kings  and  saints,  and  the  dusty  and  moulder- 
ing shrines  which  rose  around  were  colored  with  the  light 
that  came  through.  The  music  pealed  out  like  a  triumphal 
march,  sinking  at  times  into  a  mournful  strain,  as  if  it  cele- 
brated and  lamented  the  heroes  who  slept  below.  In  the 
stone  pavement,  nearly  under  my  feet,  was  a  large  square 
marble  slab  with  the  words  "Carolo  Magno."  It  was 
like  a  dream  to  stand  there  on  the  tomb  of  the  mighty  war- 
rior, with  the  lofty  arches  of  the  cathedral  above  filled  with 
the  sound  of  the  divine  anthem.  I  mused  above  his  ashes 
till  the  music  ceased,  and  then  left  the  cathedral,  that  noth- 
ing might  break  the  romantic  spell  associated  with  that 
crumbling  pile  and  the  dead  it  covered.     I  have  always 


COLOGNE  CATHEDRAL.  69 

revered  the  memory  of  Charlemagne.  He  lived  in  a  stern 
age,  but  he  was  in  mind  and  heart  a  man,  and,  like  Napo- 
leon, who  placed  the  iron  crown  which  had  lain  with  him 
centuries  in  the  tomb  upon  his  own  brow,  he  had  an  Alpine 
grandeur  of  mind  which  the  world  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge. 

At  noon  we  took  the  chars-a-banc,  or  second-class  car- 
riages, for  fear  of  rain,  and  continued  our  journey  over  a 
plain  dotted  with  villages  and  old  chateaux.  Two  or  three 
miles  from  Cologne  we  saw  the  spires  of  the  different 
churches,  conspicuous  among  which  were  the  unfinished 
towers  of  the  cathedral,  with  the  enormous  crane  standing 
as  it  did  when  they  left  off  building,  two  hundred  years 
ago  or  more.  On  arriving  we  drove  to  the  Bonn  railway, 
where,  finding  the  last  train  did  not  leave  for  four  hours, 
we  left  our  baggage  and  set  out  for  the  cathedral.  Of  all 
Gothic  buildings,  the  plan  of  this  is  certainly  the  most  stu- 
pendous ;  even  ruin  as  it  is,  it  cannot  fail  to  excite  surprise 
and  admiration.  The  king  of  Prussia  has  undertaken  to 
complete  it  according  to  the  original  plan,  which  was  lately 
found  in  the  possession  of  a  poor  man,  of  whom  it  was  pur- 
chased for  forty  thousand  florins,  but  he  has  not  yet  finished 
repairing  what  is  already  built.  The  legend  concerning 
this  plan  may  not  be  known  to  every  one.  It  is  related  of 
the  inventor  of  it  that,  in  despair  of  finding  any  sufficiently 
great,  he  was  walking  one  day  by  the  river,  sketching  with 
his  stick  upon  the  sand,  when  he  finally  hit  upon  one  which 
pleased  him  so  much  that  he  exclaimed,  "  This  shall  be  the 
plan  !" — "  I  will  show  you  a  better  one  than  that,"  said  a 
voice,  suddenly,  behind  him,  and  a  certain  black  gentleman 
who  figures  in  all  German  legends  stood  by  him  and  pulled 
from  his  pocket  a  roll  containing  the  present  plan  of  the 
cathedral.  The  architect,  amazed  at  its  grandeur,  asked  an 
explanation  of  every  part.  As  he  knew  his  soul  was  to  be 
the  price  of  it,  he  occupied  himself,  while  the  devil  was  ex- 
plaining, in  committing  its  proportions  carefully  to  memory. 


70  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Having  done  this,  he  remarked  that  it  did  not  please  him 
and  he  would  not  take  it.  The  devil,  seeing  through  the 
cheat,  exclaimed  in  his  rage,  "  You  may  build  your  cathe- 
dral according  to  this  plan,  but  you  shall  never  finish  it !" 
This  prediction  seems  likely  to  be  verified,  for,  though  it 
was  commenced  in  1248  and  built  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  only  the  choir  and  nave,  and  one  tower  to  half  its 
original  height,  are  finished. 

We  visited  the  chapel  of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins, 
the  walls  of  which  are  full  of  curious  grated  cells  contain- 
ing their  bones,  and  then  threaded  the  narrow  streets  of 
Cologne,  which  are  quite  dirty  enough  to  justify  Coleridge's 
lines : 

''The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 
Doth  wash  the  city  of  Cologne ; 
But  tell  me,  nymphs,  what  power  divine 
Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ?" 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE   RHINE   TO   HEIDELBERG. 

Heidelberg,  August  30. 

Here  at  last,  and  a  most  glorious  place  it  is.  This  is  our 
first  morning  in  our  new  rooms,  and  the  sun  streams  warmly 
in  the  eastern  windows  as  I  write,  while  the  old  castle  rises 
through  the  blue  vapor  on  the  side  of  the  Kaiser-stuhl. 
The  Neckar  rushes  on  below,  and  the  Odenwald,  before  me, 
rejoices  with  its  vineyards  in  the  morning  light.  The  bells 
of  the  old  chapel  near  us  are  sounding  most  musically,  and 
a  confused  sound  of  voices  and  the  rolling  of  vehicles  comes 
up  from  the  street.     It  is  a  place  to  live  in ! 

I  must  go  back  five  or  six  days  and  take  up  the  record 
of  our  journeyings  at  Bonn.     We  had  been  looking  over 


ON  THE  RHINE.  71 

Murray's  infallible  Handbook,  and  observed  that  he  recom- 
mended the  Star  Hotel  in  that  city  as  "  the  most  moderate  in 
its  prices  of  any  on  the  Rhine ;"  so  when  the  train  from 
Cologne  arrived  and  we  were  surrounded,  in  the  darkness 
and  confusion,  by  porters  and  valets,  I  sung  out, "  Hotel  de 
l'Etoile  d'Or!"  Our  baggage  and  ourselves  were  transferred 
to  a  stylish  omnibus,  and  in  five  minutes  we  stopped  under 
a  brilliantly-lighted  archway,  where  Mr.  Joseph  Schmidt 
received  us  with  the  usual  number  of  smiles  and  bows  be- 
stowed upon  untitled  guests.  We  were  furnished  with  neat 
rooms  in  the  summit  of  the  house,  and  then  descended  to 
the  mlle-a-manger.  I  found  a  folded  note  by  my  plate, 
which  I  opened  ;  it  contained  an  engraving  of  the  front  of 
the  hotel,  a  plan  of  the  city  and  catalogue  of  its  lions,  to- 
gether with  a  list  of  the  titled  personages  who  have  from 
time  to  time  honored  the  Golden  Star  with  their  custom. 
Among  this  number  were  "their  Royal  Highnesses  the  duke 
and  duchess  of  Cambridge,  Prince  Albert,"  etc.  Had  it  not 
been  for  fatigue,  I  should  have  spent  an  uneasy  night  think- 
ing of  the  heavy  bill  which  was  to  be  presented  on  the 
morrow.  We  escaped,  however,  for  seven  francs  apiece, 
three  of  which  were  undoubtedly  for  the  honor  of  breathing 
an  aristocratic  atmosphere. 

I  was  glad  when  we  were  really  in  motion  on  the  swift 
Rhine  the  next  morning,  and  nearing  the  chain  of  moun- 
tains that  rose  up  before  us.  We  passed  Godesberg  on  the 
right,  while  on  our  left  was  the  group  of  the  seven  moun- 
tains which  extend  back  from  the  Drachenfels  to  the  Wolk- 
enberg,  or  "  Castle  of  the  Clouds."  Here  we  begin  to  en- 
ter the  enchanted  land.  The  Rhine  sweeps  around  the  foot 
of  the  Drachenfels,  while,  opposite,  the  precipitous  rock  of 
Rolandseck,  crowned  with  the  castle  of  the  faithful  knight, 
looks  down  upon  the  beautiful  island  of  Nonnenwerth,  the 
white  walls  of  the  convent  still  gleaming  through  the  trees 
as  they  did  when  the  warrior's  weary  eyes  looked  upon  them 
for  the  last  time.     I  shall  never  forget  the  enthusiasm  with 


72  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

which  I  saw  this  scene  in  the  bright,  warm  sunlight,  the 
rough  crags  softened  in  the  haze  which  filled  the  atmo- 
sphere, and  the  wild  mountains  springing  up  in  the  midst  of 
vineyards  and  crowned  with  crumbling  towers  filled  with 
the  memories  of  a  thousand  years. 

After  passing  Andernach  we  saw  in  the  distance  the  high- 
lands of  the  middle  Rhine — which  rise  above  Coblentz, 
guarding  the  entrance  to  its  wild  scenery — and  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Moselle.  They  parted  as  we  approached  ;  from 
the  foot  shot  up  the  spires  of  Coblentz,  and  the  battlements 
of  Ehrenbreitstein,  crowning  the  mountain  opposite,  grew 
larger  and  broader.  The  air  was  slightly  hazy,  and  the 
clouds  seemed  laboring  among  the  distant  mountains  to 
raise  a  storm.  As  we  came  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  Mo- 
selle and  under  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  fortress,  I  gazed 
up  with  awe  at  its  massive  walls.  Apart  from  its  magni- 
tude and  almost  impregnable  situation  on  a  perpendicular 
rock,  it  is  filled  with  the  recollections  of  history  and  hal- 
lowed by  the  voice  of  poetry.  The  scene  went  past  like  a 
panorama,  the  bridge  of  boats  opened,  the  city  glided  be- 
hind us,  and  we  entered  the  highlands  again. 

Above  Coblentz  almost  every  mountain  has  a  ruin  and  a 
legend.  One  feels  everywhere  the  spirit  of  the  past,  and 
its  stirring  recollections  come  back  upon  the  mind  with  ir- 
resistible force.  I  sat  upon  the  deck  the  whole  afternoon 
as  mountains,  towns  and  castles  passed  by  on  either  side, 
watching  them  with  a  feeling  of  the  most  enthusiastic  en- 
joyment. Every  place  was  familiar  to  me  in  memory,  and 
they  seemed  like  friends  I  had  long  communed  with  in 
spirit  and  now  met  face  to  face.  The  English  tourists  with 
whom  the  deck  was  covered  seemed  interested  too,  but  in  a 
different  manner.  With  Murray's  Handbook  open  in  their 
hands,  they  sat  and  read  about  the  very  towns  and  towers 
they  were  passing,  scarcely  lifting  their  eyes  to  the  real 
scenes,  except  now  and  then  to  observe  that  it  was  "  very 


nice." 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  LUKLEL  73 

As  we  passed  Boppart,  I  sought  out  the  inn  of  the  "  Star," 
mentioned  in  Hyperion  ;  there  was  a  maiden  sitting  on  the 
steps  who  might  have  been  Paul  Flemming's  fair  boat- 
woman.  The  clouds  which  had  here  gathered  among  the 
hills  now  came  over  the  river,  and  the  rain  cleared  the  deck 
of  its  crowd  of  admiring  tourists.  As  we  were  approach- 
ing Lurlei  Berg,  I  did  not  go  below,  and  so  enjoyed  some 
of  the  finest  scenery  on  the  Rhine  alone.  The  mountains 
approach  each  other  at  this  point,  and  the  Lurlei  rock  rises 
up  for  six  hundred  feet  from  the  water.  This  is  the  haunt 
of  the  water-nymph  Lurlei,  whose  song  charmed  the  ear  of 
the  boatman  while  his  barque  was  dashed  to  pieces  on  the 
rocks  below.  It  is  also  celebrated  for  its  remarkable  echo. 
As  we  passed  between  the  rocks,  a  guard,  who  has  a  little 
house  built  on  the  roadside,  blew  a  flourish  on  his  bugle, 
which  was  instantly  answered  by  a  blast  from  the  rocky 
battlements  of  Lurlei.  The  German  students  have  a  witty 
trick  with  this  echo:  they  call  out,  "  Who  is  the  burgo- 
master of  Oberwesel  ?"  a  town  just  above.  The  echo  an- 
swers with  the  last  syllable,  "  Esel !"  which  is  the  German 
for  "  ass." 

The  sun  came  out  of  the  cloud  as  we  passed  Oberwesel, 
with  its  tall  round  tower,  and  the  light  shining  through  the 
ruined  arches  of  Schonberg  castle  made  broad  bars  of  light 
and  shade  in  the  still  misty  air.  A  rainbow  sprang  up  out 
of  the  Rhine  and  lay  brightly  on  the  mountain-side,  color- 
ing vineyard  and  crag  in  the  most  singular  beauty,  while 
its  second  reflection  faintly  arched  like  a  glory  above  the 
high  summits.  In  the  bed  of  the  river  were  the  seven 
countesses  of  Schonberg  turned  into  seven  rocks  for  their 
cruelty  and  hard-heartedness  toward  the  knights  whom 
their  beauty  had  made  captive.  In  front,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, was  the  castle  of  Pfalz,  in  the  middle  of  the  river, 
and  from  the  heights  above  Caub  frowned  the  crumbling 
citadel  of  Gutenfels.  Imagine  all  this,  and  tell  me  if  it  is 
not  a  picture  whose  memory  should  last  a  lifetime. 


74  VIEWS   A-FOOT. 

We  came  at  last  to  Bingen,  the  southern  gate  of  the 
highlands.  Here,  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
is  the  old  mouse-tower  where  Bishop  Hatto  of  Mayence 
was  eaten  up  by  the  rats  for  his  wicked  deeds.  Passing 
Rudesheim  and  Geissenheim — celebrated  for  their  wines — 
at  sunset,  we  watched  the  varied  shore  in  the  growing  dark- 
ness, till  like  a  line  of  stars  across  the  water  we  saw  before 
us  the  bridge  of  Mayence. 

The  next  morning  I  parted  from  my  friends,  who  were 
going  to  Heidelberg  by  way  of  Mannheim,  and  set  out 
alone  for  Frankfort.  The  cars  passed  through  Hochheim, 
whose  wines  are  celebrated  all  over  the  world  ;  there  is  little 
to  interest  the  traveller  till  he  arrives  at  Frankfort,  whose 
spires  are  seen  rising  from  groves  of  trees  as  he  approaches. 
I  left  the  cars  unchallenged  for  my  passport,  greatly  to  my 
surprise,  as  it  had  cost  me  a  long  walk  and  five  shillings  in 
London  to  get  the  signature  of  the  Frankfort  consul.  I 
learned  afterward  it  was  not  at  all  necessary. 

Before  leaving  America,  N.  P.  Willis  had  kindly  given 
me  a  letter  to  his  brother,  Richard  S.  Willis,  who  is  now 
cultivating  a  naturally  fine  taste  for  music  in  Frankfort, 
and  my  first  care  was  to  find  the  American  consul,  in  order 
to  learn  his  residence.  I  discovered  at  last,  from  a  gentle- 
man who  spoke  a  little  French,  that  the  consul's  office  was 
in  the  street  Bellevue,  which  street  I  not  only  looked  for 
through  the  city,  but  crossed  over  the  bridge  to  the  suburb 
of  Sachsenhausen,  and  traversed  its  narrow,  dirty  alleys 
three  several  times,  but  in  vain.  I  was  about  giving  up  the 
search,  when  I  stumbled  upon  the  office  accidentally.  The 
name  of  the  street  had  been  given  to  me  in  French,  and 
very  naturally  it  was  not  to  be  found.  Willis  received  me 
very  kindly  and  introduced  me  to  the  amiable  German 
family  with  whom  he  resides. 

After  spending  a  delightful  evening  with  my  newly-found 
friends,  I  left  the  next  morning  in  the  omnibus  for  Heidel- 
berg.    We  passed  through  Sachsenhausen  and  ascended  a 


PASTORAL  FELICITY.  75 

long  hill  to  the  watch-tower,  whence  there  is  a  heautif'ul 
view  of  the  Main  valley.  Four  hours'  driving  over  the 
monotonous  plain  brought  me  to  Darmstadt.  The  city 
wore  a  gay  look,  left  by  the  recent  fetes.  The  monument 
of  the  old  duke  Ludwig  had  just  been  erected  in  the  centre 
of  the  great  square,  and  the  festival  attendant  upon  the  un- 
veiling of  it,  which  lasted  three  days,  had  just  closed.  The 
city  was  hung  with  garlands  and  the  square  filled  with  the 
pavilions  of  the  royal  family  and  the  musicians,  of  whom 
there  were  a  thousand  present,  while  everywhere  were  seen 
red-and-white  flao;s — the  colors  of  Darmstadt.  We  met 
wagons  decorated  with  garlands,  full  of  peasant  girls  in 
the  odd  dress  which  they  have  worn  for  three  hundred 
years. 

After  leaving  Darmstadt  we  entered  upon  the  Berg- 
strasse,  or  "  Mountain-way,"  leading  along  the  foot  of  the 
mountain-chain  which  extends  all  the  way  to  Heidelberg 
on  the  left,  while  on  the  right  stretches  far  away  the  Rhine- 
plain,  across  which  we  saw  the  dim  outline  of  the  Donners- 
berg,  in  France.  The  hills  are  crowned  with  castles  and 
their  sides  loaded  with  vines  ;  along  the  road  the  rich  green 
foliage  of  the  walnut  trees  arched  and  nearly  met  above  us. 
The  sun  shone  warm  and  bright,  and  everybody  appeared 
busy  and  contented  and  happy.  All  we  met  had  smiling 
countenances.  In  some  places  we  saw  whole  families  sitting 
under  the  trees  shelling  the  nuts  they  had  beaten  down, 
while  others  were  returning  from  the  vineyards  laden  with 
baskets  of  purple  and  white  grapes.  The  scene  seemed  to 
realize  all  I  had  read  of  the  happiness  of  the  German  peas- 
antry and  the  pastoral  beauty  of  the  German  plains. 

With  the  passengers  in  the  omnibus  I  could  hold  little 
conversation.  One,  who  knew  about  as  much  French  as  I 
did,  asked  me  where  I  came  from,  and  I  shall  not  soon  for- 
get his  expression  of  incredulity  as  I  mentioned  America. 
"  Why,"  said  he,  "  you  are  white ;  the  Americans  are  all 
black." 


76  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

We  passed  the  ruined  castles  of  Auerback  and  Starken- 
burg  and  Burg  Windeck,  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain 
near  Weinheim,  formerly  one  of  the  royal  residences  of 
Charlemagne,  and  finally  came  to  the  Heiligenberg,  or 
"Holy  Mountain,"  guarding  the  entrance  into  the  Oden- 
wald  by  the  valley  of  the  Neckar.  As  we  wound  around 
its  base  to  the  river  the  Kaiser-stuhl  rose  before  us  with  the 
mighty  castle  hanging  upon  its  side  and  Heidelberg  at  its 
feet.  It  was  a  most  strikingly  beautiful  scene,  and  for  a 
moment  I  felt  inclined  to  assent  to  the  remark  of  my  bad- 
French  acquaintance  :  "  America  is  not  beautiful;  Heidel- 
berg is  beautiful."  The  sun  had  just  set  as  we  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Holy  Mountain  and  drove  up  the  bank  of  the 
Neckar ;  all  the  chimes  of  Heidelberg  began  suddenly  to 
ring  and  a  cannon  by  the  river-side  was  fired  off  every  min- 
ute, the  sound  echoing  five  times  distinctly  from  mountain 
back  to  mountain,  and  finally  crashing  far  off  along  the 
distant  hills  of  the  Odenwald.  It  was  the  birthday  of  the 
grand  duke  of  Baden,  and  these  rejoicings  were  for  the 
closing  fete. 


CHAPTER  IX 


SCENES   IN   AND   AROUND   HEIDELBERG. 

September  30. 

There  is  so  much  to  be  seen  around  this  beautiful  place 
that  I  scarcely  know  where  to  begin  a  description  of  it.  I 
have  been  wandering  among  the  wild  paths  that  lead  up 
and  down  the  mountain-side  or  away  into  the  forests  and 
lonely  meadows  in  the  lap  of  the  Odenwald.  My  mind  is 
filled  with  images  of  the  romantic  German  scenery,  whose 
real  beauty  is  beginning  to  displace  the  imaginary  picture 
which  I  had  painted  with  the  enthusiastic  words  of  Howitt. 


AN  HISTORIC  PANORAMA.  77 

I  seem  to  stand  now  upon  the  Kaiser-stuhl,  which  rises 
above  Heidelberg,  with  that  magnificent  landscape  around 
me  from  the  Black  Forest  and  Strasburg  to  Mainz,  and 
from  the  Vosges  in  France  to  the  hills  of  Spessart  in 
Bavaria.  What  a  glorious  panorama !  and  not  less  rich  in 
associations  than  in  its  natural  beauty.  Below  me  had 
moved  the  barbarian  hordes  of  old,  the  triumphant  follow- 
ers of  Arminius  and  the  cohorts  of  Rome,  and  later  full 
many  a  warlike  host  bearing  the  banners  of  the  red  cross 
to  the  Holy  Land,  many  a  knight  returning  with  his  vas- 
sals from  the  field  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  his  lady-love  the 
scarf  he  had  worn  in  a  hundred  battles  and  claim  the  re- 
ward of  his  constancy  and  devotion.  But  brighter  spirits 
had  also  toiled  below.  That  plain  had  witnessed  the  pres- 
ence of  Luther,  and  a  host  who  strove  with  him  to  free  the 
world  from  the  chains  of  a  corrupt  and  oppressive  religion. 
There  had  also  trodden  the  master-spirits  of  German  song 
— the  giant  twain  with  their  scarcely  less  harmonious 
brethren.  They,  too,  had  gathered  inspiration  from  those 
scenes — more  fervent  worship  of  Nature  and  a  deeper  love 
for  their  beautiful  fatherland. 

Oh  what  waves  of  crime  and  bloodshed  have  swept  like 
the  waves  of  a  deluge  down  the  valley  of  the  Rhine !  War 
has  laid  his  mailed  hand  on  those  desolate  towers  and  ruth- 
lessly torn  down  what  Time  has  spared,  yet  he  could  not 
mar  the  beauty  of  the  shore,  nor  could  Time  himself  hurl 
down  the  mountains  that  guard  it.  And  what  if  I  feel  a 
new  inspiration  on  beholding  the  scene  ?  Now  that  those 
ages  have  swept  by  like  the  red  waves  of  a  tide  of  blood, 
we  see,  not  the  darkened  earth,  but  the  golden  sands  which 
the  flood  has  left  behind.  Besides,  I  have  come  from  a 
new  world,  where  the  spirit  of  man  is  untrammelled  by  the 
mouldering  shackles  of  the  past,  but  in  its  youthful  and 
joyous  freedom  goes  on  to  make  itself  a  noble  memory  for 
the  ages  that  are  to  come. 

Then  there  is  the  Wolfsbrunnen,  which  one  reaches  by  a 


78  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

beautiful  walk  up  the  bank  of  the  Neckar  to  a  quiet  dell 
in  the  side  of  the  mountain.     Through  this  the  roads  lead 
up  by  rustic  mills  always  in  motion,  and  orchards  laden 
with  ripening  fruit,  to  the  commencement  of  the  forest, 
where  a  quaint  stone  fountain  stands,  commemorating  the 
abode  of  a  sorceress  of  the  olden  time  who  was  torn  in 
pieces  by  a  wolf.     There  is  a  handsome  rustic  inn  here, 
where  every  Sunday  afternoon  a  band  plays  in  the  portico, 
while  hundreds  of  people  are  scattered  around  in  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  trees  or  feeding  the  splendid  trout  in  the 
basin  formed  by  the  little  stream.     They  generally  return 
to  the  city  by  another  walk,  leading  along  the  mountain- 
side to  the  eastern  terrace  of  the  castle,  where  they  have 
fine  views  of  the  great  Rhine   plain,  terminated  by  the 
Alsatian  hills  stretching  along  the  western  horizon  like  the 
long  crested  swells  on  the  ocean.     We  can  even  see  these 
from  the  windows  of  our  room  on  the  bank  of  the  Neckar, 
and  I  often  look  with  interest  on  one  sharp  peak,  for  on  its 
side  stands  the  castle  of  Trifels,  where  Coeur  de  Lion  was 
imprisoned  by  the  duke  of  Austria,  and  where  Blondel,  his 
faithful  minstrel,  sang  the  ballad  which  discovered  the  re- 
treat of  the  noble  captive. 

The  people  of  Heidelberg  are  rich  in  places  of  pleasure 
and  amusement.  From  the  Carl  Platz,  an  open  square  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  city,  two  paths  lead  directly  up  to  the 
castle.  By  the  first  walk  we  ascend  a  flight  of  steps  to  the 
western  gate ;  passing  through  which,  we  enter  a  delightful 
garden,  between  the  outer  walls  of  the  castle  and  the  huge 
moat  which  surrounds  it.  Great  linden,  oak  and  beech 
trees  shadow  the  walk,  and  in  secluded  nooks  little  moun- 
tain-streams spring  from  the  side  of  the  wall  into  stone 
basins.  There  is  a  tower  over  the  moat  on  the  south  side, 
next  the  mountain,  where  the  portcullis  still  hangs  with  its 
sharp  teeth  as  it  was  last  drawn  up  ;  on  each  side  stand  two 
grim  knights  guarding  the  entrance.  In  one  of  the  wooded 
walks  is  an  old  tree  brought  from  America  in  the  year 


HEIDELBERG  CASTLE.  79 

1618.  It  is  of  the  kind  called  arbor  vitce,  and  uncommonly 
tall  and  slender  for  one  of  this  species  ;  yet  it  does  not  seem 
to  thrive  well  in  a  foreign  soil.  I  noticed  that  persons  had 
cut  many  slips  off  the  lower  branches,  and  I  would  have 
been  tempted  to  do  the  same  myself  if  there  had  been  any 
I  could  reach.  In  the  curve  of  the  mountain  is  a  hand- 
some pavilion  surrounded  with  beds  of  flowers  and  foun- 
tains ;  here  all  classes  meet  together  in  the  afternoon  to  sit 
with  their  refreshments  in  the  shade,  while  frequently  a 
fine  band  of  music  gives  them  their  invariable  recreation. 
All  this,  with  the  scenery  around  them,  leaves  nothing  un- 
finished to  their  present  enjoyment.  The  Germans  enjoy 
life  under  all  circumstances,  and  in  this  way  they  make 
themselves  much  happier  than  we  who  have  far  greater 
means  of  being  so. 

At  the  end  of  the  terrace  built  for  the  princess  Elizabeth 
of  England  is  one  of  the  round  towers  which  was  split  in 
twain  by  the  French.  Half  has  fallen  entirely  away,  and 
the  other  semicircular  shell,  which  joins  the  terrace  and 
part  of  the  castle-buildings,  clings  firmly  together,  although 
part  of  its  foundation  is  gone,  so  that  its  outer  ends  actu- 
ally hang  in  the  air.  Some  idea  of  the  strength  of  the 
castle  may  be  obtained  when  I  state  that  the  walls  of  this 
tower  are  twenty-two  feet  thick,  and  that  a  staircase  has 
been  made  through  them  to  the  top,  where  one  can  sit 
under  the  lindens  growing  upon  it  or  look  down  from  the 
end  on  the  city  below  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  that 
the  great  mass  upon  which  he  stands  is  only  prevented 
from  crashing  down  with  him  by  the  solidity  of  its  masonry. 
On  one  side,  joining  the  garden,  the  statue  of  the  archduke 
Louis  in  his  breastplate  and  flowing  beard  looks  out  from 
among  the  ivy. 

There  is  little  to  be  seen  about  the  castle  except  the 
walls  themselves.  The  guide  conducted  us  through  pas- 
pages  in  which  were  heaped  many  of  the  enormous  cannon- 
balls  which  it  had  received  in  sieges  to  some  chambers  in 


80  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  foundation.  This  was  the  oldest  part  of  the  castle,  built 
in  the  thirteenth  century.  We  also  visited  the  chapel, 
which  is  in  a  tolerable  state  of  preservation.  A  kind  of 
narrow  bridge  crosses  it,  over  which  we  walked,  looking 
down  on  the  empty  pulpit  and  deserted  shrines.  We  then 
went  into  the  cellar  to  see  the  celebrated  tun.  In  a  large 
vault  are  kept  several  enormous  hogsheads,  one  of  which 
is  three  hundred  years  old,  but  they  are  nothing  in  com- 
parison with  the  tun,  which  itself  fills  a  whole  vault.  It  is 
as  high  as  a  common  two-story  house ;  on  the  top  is  a  plat- 
form upon  which  the  people  used  to  dance  after  it  was 
filled,  to  which  one  ascends  by  two  flights  of  steps.  I 
forget  exactly  how  many  casks  it  holds,  but  I  believe  eight 
hundred.     It  has  been  empty  for  fifty  years. 

We  are  very  pleasantly  situated  here.  My  friends,  who 
arrived  a  day  before  me,  hired  three  rooms  (with  the  as- 
sistance of  a  courier)  in  a  large  house  on  the  banks  of  the 
Neckar.  We  pay  for  them,  with  attendance,  thirty  florins — 
about  twelve  dollars — a  month,  and  Frau  Dr.  Grosch,  our 
polite  and  talkative  landlady,  gives  us  a  student's  break- 
fast— coffee  and  biscuit — for  about  seven  cents  apiece.  We 
are  often  much  amused  to  hear  her  endeavors  to  make  us 
understand.  As  if  to  convey  her  meaning  plainer,  she  raises 
both  thumbs  and  forefingers  to  her  mouth  and  pulls  out  the 
words  like  a  long  string ;  her  tongue  goes  so  fast  that  it 
keeps  my  mind  always  on  a  painful  stretch  to  comprehend 
an  idea  here  and  there.  Dr.  S ,  from  whom  we  take  les- 
sons in  German,  has  kindly  consented  to  our  dining  with  his 
family  for  the  sake  of  practice  in  speaking.  We  have  taken 
several  long  walks  with  them  along  the  banks  of  the  Neckar, 
but  I  should  be  puzzled  to  repeat  any  of  the  conversations 
that  took  place.  The  language,  however,  is  fast  growing 
more  familiar  since  women  are  the  principal  teachers. 

Opposite  my  window  rises  the  Heiligenberg,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Neckar.  The  lower  part  of  it  is  rich  with  vine- 
yards, and  many  cottages  stand  embosomed  in  shrubbery 


"THE  PHILOSOPIIEKS'   WAY."  81 

among  them.  Sometimes  we  see  groups  of  maidens  standing 
under  the  grape-arbors,  and  every  morning  the  peasant- 
women  go  toiling  up  the  steep  paths  with  baskets  on  their 
heads,  to  labor  among  the  vines.  On  the  Neckar,  below  us, 
the  fishermen  glide  about  in  their  boats,  sink  their  square 
nets  fastened  to  a  long  pole,  and  haul  them  up  with  the  glit- 
tering fish,  of  which  the  stream  is  full.  I  often  lean  out  of 
the  window  late  at  night,  when  the  mountains  above  are 
wrapped  in  dusky  obscurity,  and  listen  to  the  low,  musical 
ripple  of  the  river.  It  tells  to  my  excited  fancy  a  knightly 
legend  of  the  old  German  time.  Then  comes  the  bell 
rung  for  closing  the  inns,  breaking  the  spell  with  its 
deep  clang,  which  vibrates  far  away  on  the  night-air  till 
it  has  roused  all  the  echoes  of  the  Odenwald.  I  then  shut 
the  window,  turn  into  the  narrow  box  which  the  Germans 
call  a  bed,  and  in  a  few  minutes  am  wandering  in  America. 

Halfway  up  the  Heiligenberg  runs  a  beautiful  walk  divid- 
ing the  vineyards  from  the  forest  above.  This  is  called 
"  The  Philosophers'  Way,"  because  it  was  the  favorite  ram- 
ble of  the  old  professors  of  the  university.  It  can  be  reached 
by  a  toilsome,  winding  path  among  the  vines,  called  the 
Snake-way ;  and  when  one  has  ascended  to  it,  he  is  well  re- 
warded by  the  lovely  view.  In  the  evening,  when  the  sun 
has  got  behind  the  mountain,  it  is  delightful  to  sit  on  the 
stone  steps  and  watch  the  golden  light  creeping  up  the  side 
of  the  Kaiser-stuhl,  till  at  last  twilight  begins  to  darken  in 
the  valley  and  a  mantle  of  mist  gathers  above  the  Neckar. 

We  ascended  the  mountain  a  few  days  ago.  There  is  a 
path  which  leads  up  through  the  forest,  but  we  took  the 
shortest  way,  directly  up  the  side,  though  it  was  at  an  angle 
of  nearly  fifty  degrees.  It  was  hard-enough  work  scram- 
bling through  the  thick  broom  and  heather  and  over  stumps 
and  stones.  In  one  of  the  stone-heaps  I  dislodged  a  large 
orange-colored  salamander  seven  or  eight  inches  long.  They 
are  sometimes  found  on  these  mountains,  as  well  us  a  very 
large  kind  of  lizard,  called  the  eideehse,  which  the  Germans 
6 


82  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

say  is  perfectly  harmless,  and  if  one  whistles  or  plays  a  pipe 
will  come  and  play  around  him. 

The  view  from  the  top  reminded  me  of  that  from  Cats- 
kill  Mountain  House,  but  is  on  a  smaller  scale.  The 
mountains  stretch  off  sideways,  confining  the  view  to  but 
half  the  horizon,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  picture  the  Hud- 
son is  well  represented  by  the  lengthened  windings  of  the 
"  abounding  Rhine."  Nestled  at  the  base,  below  us,  was  the 
little  village  of  Handschuhheim,  one  of  the  oldest  in  this 
part  of  Germany.  The  castle  of  its  former  lords  has  nearly 
all  fallen  down,  but  the  massive  solidity  of  the  walls  which 
yet  stand  proves  its  antiquity.  A  few  years  ago  a  part  of 
the  outer  walls  which  was  remarked  to  have  a  hollow  sound 
was  taken  down,  when  there  fell  from  a  deep  niche  built 
therein  a  skeleton  clad  in  a  suit  of  the  old  German  armor. 
We  followed  a  road  through  the  woods  to  the  peak  on  which 
stand  the  ruins  of  St.  Michael's  chapel,  which  was  built  in 
the  tenth  century  and  inhabited  for  a  long  time  by  a  sect 
of  white  monks.  There  is  now  but  a  single  tower  remain- 
ing, and  all  around  is  grown  over  with  tall  bushes  and  weeds. 
It  had  a  wild  and  romantic  look,  and  I  sat  on  a  rock  and 
sketched  at  it  till  it  grew  dark,  when  we  got  down  the  moun- 
tain the  best  way  we  could. 

We  lately  visited  the  great  university  library.  You  walk 
through  one  hall  after  another  filled  with  books  of  all  kinds, 
from  the  monkish  manuscript  of  the  Middle  Ages  to  the 
most  elegant  print  of  the  present  day.  There  is  something 
to  me  more  impressive  in  a  library  like  this  than  a  solemn 
cathedral.  I  think  involuntarily  of  the  hundreds  of  mighty 
spirits  who  speak  from  these  three  hundred  thousand  vol- 
umes— of  the  toils  and  privations  with  which  Genius  has 
ever  struggled,  and  of  his  glorious  reward.  As  in  a  church, 
one  feels,  as  it  were,  the  presence  of  God — not  because  the 
place  has  been  hallowed  by  his  worship,  but  because  all 
around  stand  the  inspirations  of  his  Spirit  breathed  through 
the  mind  of  Genius  to  men.     And  if  the  mortal  remains  of 


RECRUITING  THE  ARMY.  83 

saints  and  heroes  do  not  repose  within  its  walls,  the  great 
and  good  of  the  whole  earth  are  there,  speaking  their  coun- 
sels to  the  searcher  for  truth  with  voices  whose  last  rever- 
beration will  die  away  only  when  the  globe  falls  into  ruin. 

A  few  nights  ago  there  was  a  wedding  of  peasants  across 
the  river.  In  order  to  celebrate  it  particularly,  the  guests 
went  to  the  house  where  it  was  given  by  torchlight.  The 
night  was  quite  dark,  and  the  bright  red  torches  glowed  on 
the  surface  of  the  Neckar  as  the  two  couriers  galloped  along 
the  banks  to  the  bridegroom's  house.  Here,  after  much 
shouting  and  confusion,  the  procession  was  arranged ;  the 
two  riders  started  back  again  with  their  torches,  and  the 
wagons  containing  the  guests  followed  after  with  their  flick- 
ering lights  glancing  on  the  water  till  they  disappeared 
around  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  The  choosing  of  con- 
scripts also  took  place  lately.  The  law  requires  one  person 
out  of  every  hundred  to  become  a  soldier,  and  this  in  the 
city  of  Heidelberg  amounts  to  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty. 
It  was  a  sad  spectacle.  The  young  men — or,  rather,  boys — 
who  were  chosen  went  about  the  city  with  cockades  fastened 
on  their  hats,  shouting  and  singing,  many  of  them  quite  in- 
toxicated. I  could  not  help  pitying  them  because  of  the 
dismal  mechanical  life  they  are  doomed  to  follow.  Many 
were  rough,  ignorant  peasants  to  whom  nearly  any  kind  of 
life  would  be  agreeable,  but  there  were  some  whose  coun- 
tenances spoke  otherwise,  and  I  thought  involuntarily  that 
their  drunken  gayety  was  only  affected  to  conceal  their  real 
feelings  with  regard  to  the  lot  which  had  fallen  upon  them. 

We  are  gradually  becoming  accustomed  to  the  German 
style  of  living,  which  is  very  different  from  our  own.  Their 
cookery  is  new  to  us,  but  is,  nevertheless,  good.  We  have 
every  day  a  different  kind  of  soup,  so  I  have  supposed  they 
keep  a  regular  list  of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five — one  for 
every  day  in  the  year.  Then  we  have  potatoes  "done  up" 
in  oil  and  vinegar,  veal  flavored  with  orange-peel,  barley- 
pudding  and  all  sorts  of  pancakes,  boiled  artichokes,  and 


84  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

always  rye  bread  in  loaves  a  yard  long.  Nevertheless,  we 
thrive  on  such  diet,  and  I  have  rarely  enjoyed  more  sound 
and  refreshing  sleep  than  in  their  narrow  and  coffin-like 
beds,  uncomfortable  as  they  seem. 

Many  of  the  German  customs  are  amusing.  We  never  see 
oxen  working  here,  but  always  cows,  sometimes  a  single  one  in 
a  cart,  and  sometimes  two  fastened  together  by  a  yoke  across 
their  horns.  The  women  labor  constantly  in  the  fields ; 
from  our  window  we  can  hear  the  nut-brown  maidens  sing- 
ing their  cheerful  songs  among  the  vineyards  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. Their  costume,  too,  is  odd  enough.  Below  the 
tight-fitting  vest  they  wear  such  a  number  of  short  skirts, 
one  above  another,  that  it  reminds  one  of  an  animated  hogs- 
head with  a  head  and  shoulders  starting  out  from  the  top. 
I  have  heard  it  gravely  asserted  that  the  wealth  of  a  Ger- 
man damsel  may  be  known  by  counting  the  number  of  her 
"  kirtles."  An  acquaintance  of  mine  remarked  that  it  would 
be  an  excellent  costume  for  falling  down  a  precipice. 

We  have  just  returned  from  a  second  visit  to  Frankfort, 
where  the  great  annual  fair  filled  the  streets  with  noise  and 
bustle.  On  our  way  back  we  stopped  at  the  village  of 
Zwiugenberg,  which  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  Melibochus,  for 
the  purpose  of  visiting  some  of  the  scenery  of  the  Odenwald. 
Passing  the  night  at  the  inn  there,  we  slept  with  one  bed 
under  and  two  above,  and  started  early  in  the  morning  to 
climb  up  the  side  of  the  Melibochus.  After  a  long  walk 
through  the  forests,  which  were  beginning  to  change  their 
summer  foliage  for  a  brighter  garment,  we  reached  the  sum- 
mit and  ascended  the  stone  tower  which  stands  upon  it. 
This  view  gives  one  a  better  idea  of  the  Odenwald  than  that 
from  the  Kaiser-stuhl  at  Haidelberg.  In  the  soft  autumn 
atmosphere  it  looked  even  more  beautiful.  After  an  hour 
in  that  heaven  of  uplifted  thought  into  which  we  step  from 
the  mountain-top  our  minds  went  with  the  path  downward 
to  earth,  and  we  descended  the  eastern  side  into  the  wild 
region  which  contains  the  Felsenmeer,  or  "  Sea  of  Rocks." 


THE  SEA  OF  ROCKS.  85 

We  met  on  the  way  a  student  from  Fulda —  a  fine  speci- 
men of  that  free-spirited  class,  and  a  man  whose  smothered 
aspiration  was  betrayed  in  the  flashing  of  his  eye  as  he  spoke 
of  the  present  painful  and  oppressed  condition  of  Germany. 
We  talked  so  busily  together  that  without  noticing  the  path, 
which  had  been  bringing  us  on  up  hill  and  down,  through 
forest  and  over  rock,  we  came  at  last  to  a  halt  in  a  valley 
among  the  mountains.     Making  inquiries  there,  we  found 
we  had  gone  wrong,  and  must  ascend  by  a  different  path  the 
mountain  we  had  just  come  down.    Near  the  summit  of  this, 
in  a  wild  pine  wood,  was  the  Felsenmeer — a  great  collection 
of  rocks  heaped  together  like  pebbles  on  the  seashore  and 
worn  and  rounded  as  if  by  the  action  of  water :  so  much  do 
they  resemble  waves  that  one  standing  at  the  bottom  and 
looking  up  cannot  resist  the  idea  that  they  will  flow  down 
upon  him.     It  must  have  been  a  mighty  tide  whose  reced- 
ing waves  left  these  masses  piled  up  together.     The  same 
formation  continues  at  intervals  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains. 
It  reminded  me  of  a  glacier  of  rocks  instead  of  ice.     A  little 
higher  up  lies  a  massive  block  of  granite  called  the  Giant's 
Column.     It  is  thirty-two  feet  long  and  three  to  four  feet  in 
diameter,  and  still  bears  the  mark  of  the  chisel.     When  or 
by  whom  it  was  made  remains  a  mystery.     Some  have  sup- 
posed it  was  intended  to  be  erected  for  the  worship  of  the 
sun  by  the  wild  Teutonic  tribes  who  inhabited  this  forest ; 
it  is  more  probably  the  work  of  the  Romans.     A  project  was 
once  started  to  erect  it  as  a  monument  on  the  battle-field 
of  Leipsic,  but  it  was   found   too   difficult   to   carry  into 
execution. 

After  dining  at  the  little  village  of  Reichelsdorf,  in  the 
valley  below — where  the  merry  landlord  charged  my  friend 
two  kreutzei's  less  than  myself  because  he  was  not  so  tall — 
we  visited  the  castle  of  Schonberg,  and  joined  the  Berg- 
strasse  again.  We  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  here.  Long 
before  we  arrived  the  moon  shone  down  on  us  over  the 
mountains;   and  when  we  turned  around  the  foot  of  the 


86  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Heiligenberg,  the   mist   descending   in   the  valley  of  the 
Neckar  rested  like  a  light  cloud  on  the  church-spires. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A   WALK   THROUGH   THE   ODENWALD. 

B and  I  are  now  comfortably  settled  in  Frankfort, 

having,  with  Mr.  Willis's  kind  assistance,  obtained  lodgings 
with  the  amiable  family  with  whom  he  has  resided  for 
more  than  two  years.  My  cousin  remains  in  Heidelberg  to 
attend  the  winter  course  of  lectures  at  the  university. 

Having  forwarded  our  baggage  by  the  omnibus,  we  came 
hither  on  foot,  through  the  heart  of  the  Odenwald— a  region 

full  of  interest,  yet  little  visited  by  travellers.     Dr.  S 

and  his  family  walked  with  us  three  or  four  miles  of  the 
way,  and  on  a  hill  above  Ziegelhausen,  with  a  splendid  view 
behind  us  through  the  mountain-door  out  of  which  the 
Neckar  enters  on  the  Rhine-plain,  we  parted.  This  was  a 
first,  and,  I  must  confess,  a  somewhat  embarrassing,  experi- 
ence in  German  leavetaking.  After  bidding  adieu  three  or 
four  times,  we  started  to  go  up  the  mountain  and  they  down 
it,  but  at  every  second  step  we  had  to  turn  around  to  ac- 
knowledge the  waving  of  hands  and  handkerchiefs,  which 
continued  so  long  that  I  was  glad  when  we  were  out  of  sight 
of  each  other.  We  descended  on  the  other  side  into  a  wild 
and  romantic  valley  whose  meadows  were  of  the  brightest 
green ;  a  little  brook  which  wound  through  them  put  now 
and  then  its  "  silvery  shoulder "  to  the  wheel  of  a  rustic 
mill.  By  the  roadside  two  or  three  wild-looking  gypsies 
sat  around  a  fire,  with  some  goats  feeding  near  them. 

Passing  through  this  valley  and  the  little  village  of 
Schonau,  we  commenced  ascending  one  of  the  loftiest  ranges 
of  the  Odenwald.     The  side  of  the  mountain  was  covered 


NATURE'S  CATITEDEAL.  87 

with  a  thick  pine-forest.  There  was  no  wind  to  wake  its 
solemn  anthem ;  all  was  calm  and  majestic,  and  even  awful. 
The  trees  rose  all  around  like  the  pillars  of  avast  cathedral 
whose  long  arched  aisles  vanished  far  below  in  the  deepen- 
ing gloom. 

"Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer," 

for  twilight  had  already  begun  to  gather.  We  went  on  and 
up  and  ever  higher,  like  the  youth  in  "  Excelsior ;"  the 
beech  and  dwarf-oak  took  the  place  of  the  pine,  and  at  last 
we  arrived  at  a  cleared  summit  whose  long  brown  grass 
waved  desolately  in  the  dim  light  of  evening.  A  faint  glow 
still  lingered  over  the  forest-hills,  but  down  in  the  valley 
the  dusky  shades  hid  every  vestige  of  life,  though  its  sounds 
came  up  softened  through  the  long  space.  When  we  reached 
the  top,  a  bright  planet  stood  like  a  diamond  over  the  brow 
of  the  eastern  hill,  and  the  sound  of  a  twilight-bell  came  up 
clearly  and  sonorously  on  the  cool  damp  air.  The  white 
veil  of  mist  slowly  descended  down  the  mountain-side,  but 
the  peaks  rose  above  it  like  the  wrecks  of  a  world  floating 
in  space. 

We  made  our  way  in  the  dusk  down  the  long  path  to  the 
rude  little  dorf  of  Elsbach.  I  asked  at  the  first  inn  for  lodg- 
ing, where  Ave  were  ushered  into  a  great  room  in  which  a 
number  of  girls  Avho  had  been  at  work  in  the  fields  were  as- 
sembled. They  were  all  dressed  in  men's  jackets  and  short 
gowns,  and  some  had  their  hair  streaming  down  their  back. 
The  landlord's  daughter,  however,  was  a  beautiful  girl  whose 
modest,  delicate  features  contrasted  greatly  with  the  coarse 
faces  of  the  others.  I  thought  of  Uhland's  beautiful  little 
poem  of  "The  Landlady's  Daughter"  as  I  looked  on  her. 
In  the  room  hung  two  or  three  pair  of  antlers,  and  they 
told  us  deer  were  still  plenty  in  the  forests. 

When  we  left  the  village  the  next  morning,  we  again 
commenced  ascending.     Over  the  whole  valley  and  halfway 


88  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

up  the  mountain  lay  a  thick  white  frost  almost  like  snow, 
which,  contrasted  with  the  green  trees  and  bushes  scattered 
over  the  meadows,  produced  the  most  singular  effect.  We 
plucked  blackberries  ready  iced  from  the  bushes  by  the 
roadside,  and  went  on  in  the  cold — for  the  sun  shone  only 
on  the  top  of  the  opposite  mountain — into  another  valley, 
down  which  rushed  the  rapid  Ulver.  At  a  little  village 
which  bears  the  beautiful  name  Anteschonmattenwag  we 
took  a  footpath  directly  over  a  steep  mountain  to  the  village 
of  Finkenbach.  Near  the  top  I  found  two  wild-looking 
children  cutting  grass  with  knives,  both  of  whom  I  prevailed 
upon  for  a  few  kreutzers  to  stand  and  let  me  sketch  them. 
From  the  summit  the  view  on  the  other  side  was  very  striking. 
The  hills  were  nearly  every  one  covered  with  wood,  and  not 
a  dwelling  in  sight.  It  reminded  me  of  our  forest-scenery 
at  home.  The  principal  difference  is  that  our  trees  are  two 
or  three  times  the  size  of  theirs. 

At  length,  after  scaling  another  mountain,  we  reached  a 
wide  elevated  plain  in  the  middle  of  which  stood  the  old 
dorj  of  Beerfelden.  It  was  then  crowded  with  people,  on 
account  of  a  great  cattle-fair  being  held  there.  All  the 
farmers  of  the  neighborhood  were  assembled,  clad  in  the 
ancient  country  costume — broad  cocked  hats  and  blue 
frocks.  An  orchard  near  the  town  was  filled  with  cattle 
and  horses,  and  near  by,  in  the  shade,  a  number  of  pedlers 
had  arranged  their  wares.  The  cheerful-looking  country- 
people  touched  their  hats  to  us  as  we  passed.  This  custom 
of  greeting  travellers — universal  in  Germany — is  very  ex- 
pressive of  their  social  friendly  manners.  Among  the 
mountains  we  frequently  met  groups  of  children  who  sang 
together  their  simple  ballads  as  we  passed  by. 

From  Beerfelden  we  passed  down  the  valley  of  the  Mim- 
ling  to  Erbach,  the  principal  city  in  the  Odenwald,  and 
there  stopped  a  short  time  to  view  the  rittersaal  in  the  old 
family  castle  of  the  counts  of  Erbach.  An  officer  who 
stood  at  the  gates  conducted  us  to  the  door,  where  we  were 


A  THIEVISH  ANTIQUARIAN.  89 

received  by  a  noble-looking  gray-beaded  steward.  He 
took  us  into  tbe  rittermal  at  once,  wbich  was  like  stepping 
back  three  hundred  years.  The  stained  windows  of  the 
lofty  Gothic  hall  let  in  a  subdued  light  which  fell  on  the 
forms  of  kings  and  knights  clad  in  the  armor  they  wore 
during  life.  On  the  left  as  we  entered  were  mail-covered 
figures  of  John  and  Cosmo  de  Medici ;  farther  on  stood  the 
emperor  Maximilian,  and  by  his  side  the  celebrated  dwarf 
who  was  served  up  in  a  pie  at  one  of  the  imperial  feasts. 
His  armor  was  most  delicate  and  beautiful,  but,  small  as  it 
was,  General  Thumb  would  have  had  room  in  it.  Gustavus 
Adolphus  and  Wallenstein  looked  down  from  the  neighbor- 
ing pedestals,  while  at  the  other  end  stood  Goetz  von  Ber- 
lichingen  and  Albert  of  Brunswick.  Guarding  the  door 
were  Hans,  the  robber-knight  of  Nuremberg,  and  another 
from  the  Thiiringian  Forest.  The  steward  told  me  that 
the  iron  hand  of  Goetz. was  in  possession  of  the  family,  but 
not  shown  to  strangers;  he  pointed  out,  however,  the 
buckles  on  the  armor  by  which  it  was  fastened.  Adjoining 
the  hall  is  an  antique  chapel  filled  with  rude  old  tombs  and 
containing  the  sarcophagus  of  Count  Eginhard  of  Den- 
mark, who  lived  about  the  tenth  century.  There  were  also 
monkish  garments  five  hundred  years  old  hanging  up  in  it. 

The  collection  of  antiquities  is  large  and  interesting,  but 
it  is  said  that  the  old  count  obtained  some  of  them  in  rather 
a  questionable  manner.  Among  other  incidents,  they  say 
that  when  in  Rome  he  visited  the  pope,  taking  with  him  an 
old  servant  who  accompanied  him  in  all  his  travels  and  was 
the  accomplice  in  most  of  his  antiquarian  thefts.  In  one 
of  the  outer  halls,  among  the  curiosities,  was  an  antique 
shield  of  great  value.  The  servant  was  left  in  this  hall 
while  the  count  had  his  audience,  and  in  a  short  time  this 
shield  was  missed.  The  servant,  who  wore  a  long  cloak, 
was  missed  also ;  orders  were  given  to  close  the  gates  and 
search  everybody,  but  it  was  too  late :  the  thief  was  gone. 

Leaving  Erbach,  we  found  out  the  direction  of  Snellert, 


90  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  castle  of  the  Wild  Huntsman,  and  took  a  road  that  led 
us  for  two  or  three  hours  along  the  top  of  a  mountain- 
ridge.  Through  the  openings  in  the  pine-  and  larch-forests 
we  had  glimpses  of  the  hills  of  Spessart,  beyond  the  Main. 
When  we  finally  left  the  by-road  we  had  chosen,  it  was 
quite  dark,  and  we  missed  the  way  altogether  among  the 
lanes  and  meadows.  We  came  at  last  to  a  full  stop  at  the 
house  of  a  farmer,  who  guided  us  by  a  footpath  over  the 
fields  to  a  small  village.  On  entering  the  only  inn,  kept  by 
the  burgomaster,  the  people,  finding  we  were  Americans,  re- 
garded us  with  a  curiosity  quite  uncomfortable.  They 
crowded  around  the  door,  watching  every  motion,  and 
gazed  in  through  the  windows.  The  Wild  Huntsman  him- 
self could  scarcely  have  made  a  greater  sensation.  The 
news  of  our  arrival  seemed  to  have  spread  very  fast,  for 
the  next  morning,  when  we  stopped  at  a  prune-orchard 
some  distance  from  the  village  to  buy  some  fruit,  the  farmer 
cried  out  from  a  tree,  "  They  are  Americans ;  give  them  as 
many  as  they  want  for  nothing !" 

With  the  burgomaster's  little  son  for  a  guide,  we  went 
back  a  mile  or  two  of  our  route  to  Snellert,  which  we  had 
passed  the  night  before,  and  after  losing  ourselves  two  or 
three  times  in  the  woods  arrived  at  last  at  the  top  of  the 
mountain  where  the  ruins  of  the  castle  stand.  The  walls 
are  nearly  level  with  the  ground.  The  interest  of  a  visit 
rests  entirely  on  the  romantic  legend  and  the  wild  view  over 
the  hills  around,  particularly  that  in  front,  where  on  the 
opposite  mountain  are  the  ruins  of  Rodenstein,  to  which 
the  Wild  Huntsman  was  wont  to  ride  at  midnight — where 
he  now  rides  no  more.  The  echoes  of  Rodenstein  are  no 
longer  awakened  by  the  sound  of  his  bugle  and  the  hoofs 
of  his  demon-steed  clanging  on  the  battlements,  but  the 
hills  around  are  wild  enough  and  the  roar  of  the  pine- 
forests  deep  enough  to  have  insjnred  the  simple  peasants 
with  the  romantic  tradition. 

Stopping  for  dinner  at  the  town  of  Rheinheim,  we  met 


EMIGRANTS  TO  TEXAS.  91 

an  old  man  who  on  learning  we  were  Americans  walked 
with  us  as  far  as  the  next  village.  He  had  a  daughter  in 
America,  and  was  highly  gratified  to  meet  any  one  from  the 
country  of  her  adoption.  He  made  me  promise  to  visit  her 
if  I  ever  should  go  to  St.  Louis,  and  say  that  I  had  walked 
with  her  father  from  Rheinheim  to  Zwangenburg.  To 
satisfy  his  fears  that  I  might  forget  it,  I  took  down  his 
name  and  that  of  his  daughter.  He  shook  me  warmly  by 
the  hand  at  parting,  and  was  evidently  made  happier  for 
that  day. 

We  reached  Darmstadt  just  in  time  to  take  a  seat  in  the 
omnibus  for  Frankfort.  Among  the  passengers  were  a  Bava- 
rian family  on  their  way  to  Bremen,  to  ship  from  thence  to 
Texas.  I  endeavored  to  discourage  the  man  from  choosing 
such  a  country  as  his  home  by  telling  him  of  its  heats  and 
pestilences,  but  he  was  too  full  of  hope  to  be  shaken  in  his 
purpose.  I  would  have  added  that  it  was  a  slave-land,  but 
I  thought  on  our  own  country's  curse,  and  was  silent.  The 
wife  was  not  so  sanguine ;  she  seemed  to  mourn  in  secret 
at  leaving  her  beautiful  fatherland.  It  was  saddening  to 
think  how  lonely  they  would  feel  in  that  far  home,  and  how 
they  would  long  with  true  German  devotion  to  look  again 
on  the  green  vintage-hills  of  their  forsaken  country.  As 
night  drew  on  the  little  girl  crept  over  to  her  father  for  his 
accustomed  evening  kiss,  and  then  sank  back  to  sleep  in  a 
corner  of  the  wagon.  The  boy,  in  the  artless  confidence  of 
childhood,  laid  his  head  on  my  breast,  weary  with  the  day's 
travel,  and  soon  slept  also.  Thus  we  drove  on  in  the  dark, 
till  at  length  the  lights  of  Frankfort  glimmered  on  the 
breast  of  the  rapid  Main  as  we  passed  over  the  bridge ; 
and  when  we  stopped  near  the  cathedral,  I  delivered  up  my 
little  charge  and  sent  my  sympathy  with  the  wanderers  on 
their  lonely  way. 


92  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

SCENES   IN   FRANKFORT. — AN  AMERICAN   COMPOSER. — THE 
POET   FREILIGRATH. 

December  4. 

This  is  a  genuine  old  German  city.  Founded  by  Charle- 
magne, afterward  a  rallying-point  of  the  crusaders,  and  for 
a  long  time  the  capital  of  the  German  empire,  it  has  no  lack 
of  interesting  historical  recollections,  and,  notwithstanding 
it  is  fast  becoming  modernized,  one  is  everywhere  reminded 
of  the  past.  The  cathedral,  old  as  the  days  of  Peter  the 
Hermit,  the  grotesque  street  of  the  Jews,  the  many  quaint, 
antiquated  dwellings  and  the  mouldering  watch-towers  on 
the  hills  around  give  it  a  more  interesting  character  than 
any  German  city  I  have  yet  seen.  The  house  we  dwell  in, 
on  the  Markt  Platz,  is  more  than  two  hundred  years  old ; 
directly  opposite  is  a  great  castellated  building  gloomy 
with  the  weight  of  six  centuries,  and  a  few  steps  to  the 
left  briugs  me  to  the  square  of  the  Romerberg,  where  the 
emperors  were  crowned,  in  a  corner  of  which  is  a  curi- 
ously ornamented  house  formerly  the  residence  of  Luther. 
There  are  legends  innumerable  connected  with  all  these 
buildings,  and  even  yet  discoveries  are  frequently  made  in 
old  houses  of  secret  chambers  and  staircases.  When  you 
add  to  all  this  the  German  love  of  ghost-stories,  and,  indeed, 
their  general  belief  in  spirits,  the  lover  of  romance  could 
not  desire  a  more  agreeable  residence. 

I  often  look  out  on  the  singular  scene  below  my  window. 
On  both  sides  of  the  street,  leaving  barely  room  to  enter 
the  houses,  sit  the  market-women  with  their  baskets  of  veg- 
etables and  fruit.  The  middle  of  the  street  is  filled  with 
women  buying,  and  every  cart  or  carriage  that  comes  along 
has  to  force  its  way  through  the  crowd,  sometimes  rolling 
against  and  overturning  the  baskets  on  the  side,  when  for  a 


THE  GOETHE  MONUMENT.  93 

few  minutes  there  is  a  Babel  of  unintelligible  sounds.  The 
country-women  in  their  jackets  and  short  gowns  go  back- 
ward and  forward  with  great  loads  on  their  heads,  some- 
times nearly  as  high  as  themselves.  It  is  a  most  singular 
scene,  and  so  varied  that  one  never  tires  of  looking  upon 
it.  These  women  sit  here  from  sunrise  till  sunset,  day  after 
day,  for  years.  They  have  little  furnaces  for  cooking  and 
for  warmth  in  winter ;  and  when  it  rains,  they  sit  in  large 
wooden  boxes.  One  or  two  policemen  are  generally  on  the 
ground  in  the  morning  to  prevent  disputing  about  their 
places,  which  often  gives  rise  to  interesting  scenes.  Perhaps 
this  kind  of  life  in  the  open  air  is  conducive  to  longevity, 
for  certainly  there  is  no  country  on  earth  that  has  as  many 
old  women.  Many  of  them  look  like  walking-machines 
made  of  leather,  and,  to  judge  from  what  I  see  in  the  streets 
here,  I  should  think  they  work  till  they  die. 

On  the  21st  of  October  a  most  interesting  fete  took  place. 
The  magnificent  monument  of  Goethe,  modelled  by  the 
sculptor  Schwanthaler  at  Munich  and  cast  in  bronze,  was 
unveiled.  It  arrived  a  few  days  before,  and  was  received 
with  much  ceremony  and  erected  in  the  destined  spot — an 
open  square  in  the  western  part  of  the  city  planted  with 
acacia  trees.  I  went  there  at  ten  o'clock,  and  found  the 
square  already  full  of  people.  Seats  had  been  erected 
around  the  monument  for  ladies,  the  singers  and  musicians. 
A  company  of  soldiers  was  stationed  to  keep  an  entrance 
for  the  procession,  which  at  length  arrived  with  music  and 
banners,  and  entered  the  enclosure.  A  song  for  the  occa- 
sion was  sung  by  the  choir ;  it  swelled  up  gradually,  and 
with  such  perfect  harmony  and  unity  that  it  seemed  like 
some  glorious  instrument  touched  by  a  single  hand.  Then 
a  poetical  address  was  delivered ;  after  which,  four  young 
men  took  their  stand  at  the  corners  of  the  monument ;  the 
drums  and  trumpets  gave  a  flourish,  and  the  mantle  fell. 
The  noble  figure  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  earth,  and  thus 
amid  shoutings  and  the  triumphal  peal  of  the  band  the 


94  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

form  of  Goethe  greeted  the  city  of  his  birth.  He  is  rep- 
resented as  leaning  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  holding  in  his 
right  hand  a  roll  of  parchment  and  in  his  left  a  wreath. 
The  pedestal,  which  is  also  of  bronze,  contains  bas-reliefs 
representing  scenes  from  Faust,  Wilhelm  Melster  and  Egmont. 
In  the  evening  Goethe's  house,  in  a  street  near,  was  illumi- 
nated by  arches  of  lamps  between  the  windows  and  hung 
with  wreaths  of  flowers.  Four  pillars  of  colored  lamps 
lighted  the  statue.  At  nine  o'clock  the  choir  of  singers 
came  again  in  a  procession,  with  colored  lanterns  on  poles, 
and  after  singing  two  or  three  songs  the  statue  was  exhibited 
in  the  red  glare  of  the  bengal-light.  The  trees  and  houses 
around  the  square  were  covered  with  the  glow,  which 
streamed  in  broad  sheets  up  against  the  dark  sky. 

Within  the  walls  the  greater  part  of  Frankfort  is  built 
in  the  old  German  style,  the  houses  six  or  seven  stories  high 
and  every  story  projecting  out  over  the  other  ;  so  that  those 
living  in  the  upper  part  can  nearly  shake  hands  out  of  the 
windows.  At  the  corners  figures  of  men  are  often  seen 
holding  up  the  story  above  on  their  shoulders  and  making 
horrible  faces  at  the  weight.  When  I  state  that  in  all  these 
narrow  streets,  which  constitute  the  greater  part  of  the  city, 
there  are  no  sidewalks,  the  windows  of  the  lower  stories 
with  an  iron  grating  extending  a  foot  or  so  into  the  street, 
which  is  only  wide  enough  for  one  cart  to  pass  along,  you 
can  have  some  idea  of  the  facility  of  walking  through  them, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  piles  of  wood  and  market-women 
with  baskets  of  vegetables  which  one  is  continually  stum- 
bling over.  Even  in  the  wider  streets  I  have  always  to 
look  before  and  behind  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  fiacres ; 
the  people  here  get  so  accustomed  to  it  that  they  leave  barely 
room  for  them  to  pass,  and  the  carriages  go  dashing  by  at  a 
nearness  which  sometimes  makes  me  shudder. 

As  I  walked  across  the  Main  and  looked  down  at  the 
swift  stream  on  its  way  from  the  distant  Thuringian  Forest 
to  join  the  Rhine,  I  thought  of  the  time  when  Schiller 


SATAN   FOILED.  95 

stood  there  in  the  days  of  his  early  struggles,  an  exile  from 
his  native  land,  and,  looking  over  the  bridge,  said  in  the 
loneliness  of  his  heart, "  That  water  flows  not  so  deep  as  my 
Bufferings."  In  the  middle,  on  an  iron  ornament,  stands 
the  golden  cock  at  which  Goethe  used  to  marvel  when  a 
boy.  Perhaps  you  have  not  heard  the  legend  connected 
with  this?  The  bridge  was  built  several  hundred  years  ago 
with  such  strength  and  solidity  that  it  will  stand  many  hun- 
dred yet.  The  architect  had  contracted  to  build  it  within 
a  certain  time,  but,  as  it  drew  near  without  any  prospect  of 
fulfilment,  the  devil  appeared  to  him  and  promised  to  finish 
it  on  condition  of  having  the  first  soul  that  passed  over  it. 
This  was  agreed  upon,  and  the  devil  performed  his  part  of 
the  bargain.  The  artist,  however,  on  the  day  appointed, 
drove  a  cock  across  before  he  suffered  any  one  to  pass  over 
it.  His  Majesty  stationed  himself  under  the  middle  arch 
of  the  bridge,  awaiting  his  prey  ;  but,  enraged  at  the  cheat, 
he  tore  the  unfortunate  fowl  in  pieces  and  broke  two  holes 
in  the  arch,  saying  they  should  never  be  built  up  again. 
The  golden  cock  was  erected  on  the  bridge  as  a  token  of 
the  event,  but  the  devil  has  perhaps  lost  some  of  his  power 
in  these  latter  days,  for  the  holes  were  filled  up  about  thirty 
years  ago. 

From  the  hills  on  the  Darmstadt  road  I  had  a  view  of 
the  country  around ;  the  fields  were  white  and  bare,  and 
the  dark  Tannus,  with  the  broad  patches  of  snow  on  his 
sides,  looked  grim  and  shadowy  through  the  dim  atmosphere. 
It  was  like  the  landscape  of  a  dream — dark,  strange  and 
silent.  The  whole  of  last  month  we  saw  the  sun  but  two  or 
three  days,  the  sky  being  almost  continually  covered  with 
a  gloomy  fog.  England  and  Germany  seem  to  have  ex- 
changed climates  this  year,  for  in  the  former  country  we  had 
delightfully  clear  weather. 

I  have  seen  the  banker  Rothschild  several  times  driving 
about  the  city.  This  one — Anselmo,  the  most  celebrated 
of  the  brothers — holds  a  mortgage  on  the  city  of  Jerusalem. 


96  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

He  rides  about  in  style,  with  officers  attending  his  carriage. 
He  is  a  little  baldheaded  man  with  marked  Jewish  features, 
and  is  said  not  to  deceive  his  looks.  At  any  rate,  his  repu- 
tation is  none  of  the  best,  either  with  Jews  or  Christians. 
A  caricature  was  published  some  time  ago  in  which  he  is 
represented  as  giving  a  beggar-woman  by  the  wayside  a 
kreutzer — the  smallest  German  coin.  She  is  made  to  ex- 
claim, "  God  reward  you  a  thousand  fold !"  He  immedi- 
ately replies,  after  reckoning  up  in  his  head,  "How  much 
have  I  then  ?    Sixteen  florins  and  forty  kreutzers !" 

I  have  lately  heard  one  of  the  most  perfectly  beautiful 
creations  that  ever  emanated  from  the  soul  of  genius — the 
opera  of  Fidelio.  I  have  caught  faint  glimpses  of  that  rich 
world  of  fancy  and  feeling  to  which  music  is  the  golden 
door.  Surrendering  myself  to  the  grasp  of  Beethoven's 
powerful  conception,  I  read  in  sounds  far  more  expressive 
than  words  the  almost  despairing  agony  of  the  strong- 
hearted  but  still  tender  and  womanly  Fidelio,  the  ecstatic 
joy  of  the  wasted  prisoner  when  he  rose  from  his  hard 
couch  in  the  dungeon,  seeming  to  feel  in  his  maniac  brain 
the  presentiment  of  a  bright  being  who  would  come  to  un- 
bind his  chains,  and  the  sobbing  and  wailing,  almost  human, 
which  came  from  the  orchestra  when  they  dug  his  grave  by 
the  dim  lantern's  light.  When  it  was  done,  the  murderer 
stole  into  the  dungeon  to  gloat  on  the  agonies  of  his  victim 
ere  he  gave  the  death-blow.  Then,  while  the  prisoner  is 
waked  to  reason  by  that  sight,  and  Fidelio  throws  herself 
before  the  uplifted  dagger,  rescuing  her  husband  with  the 
courage  which  love  gives  to  a  woman's  heart,  the  storm  of 
feeling  which  has  been  gathering  in  the  music  swells  to  a 
height  beyond  which  it  seemed  impossible  for  the  soul  to 
pass.  My  nerves  were  thrilled  till  I  could  bear  no  more. 
A  mist  seemed  to  come  before  my  eyes,  and  I  scarcely  knew 
what  followed,  till  the  rescued  kneeled  together  and  poured 
forth  in  the  closing  hymn  the  painful  fulness  of  their  joy. 
I  dreaded  the  sound  of  voices  after  the  close  and  the  walk 


RICHARD  S.   WILLIS.  97 

home  amid  the  harsh  rattling  of  vehicles  on  the  rough 
streets.  For  days  afterward  my  brain  was  filled  with  a 
mingled  and  confused  sense  of  melody  like  the  half  remem- 
bered music  of  a  dream. 

Why  should  such  magnificent  creations  of  art  be  denied 
the  New  World  ?  There  is  certainly  enthusiasm  and  refine- 
ment of  feeling  enough  at  home  to  appreciate  them  were 
the  proper  direction  given  to  the  popular  taste.  What 
country  possesses  more  advantages  to  foster  the  growth  of 
such  an  art  than  ours?  Why  should  not  the  composer  gain 
mighty  conceptions  from  the  grandeur  of  our  mountain- 
scenery,  from  the  howling  of  the  storm  through  our  giant 
forests,  from  the  eternal  thunder  of  Niagara  ?  All  these 
collateral  influences,  which  more  or  less  tend  to  the  devel- 
opment and  expansion  of  genius,  are  characteristics  of  our 
country,  and  a  taste  for  musical  compositions  of  a  refined 
and  lofty  character  would  soon  give  birth  to  creators. 

Fortunately  for  our  country,  this  missing  star  in  the 
crown  of  her  growing  glory  will  probably  soon  be  replaced. 
Richard  S.  Willis,  with  whom  we  have  lived  in  delightful 
companionship  since  coming  here,  has  been  for  more  than 
two  years  studying  and  preparing  himself  for  the  higher 
branches  of  composition.  The  musical  talent  he  displayed 
while  at  college,  and  the  success  following  the  publication 
of  a  set  of  beautiful  waltzes  he  there  composed,  led  him  to 
choose  this  most  difficult  but  lofty  path  ;  the  result  justifies 
his  early  promise  and  gives  the  most  sanguine  anticipations 
for  the  future.  He  studied  the  first  two  years  here  under 
Schnyder  von  Wartensee,  a  distinguished  Swiss  composer, 
and  his  exercises  have  met  with  the  warmest  approval  from 
Mendelssohn,  at  present  the  first  German  composer,  and 
Rinck,  the  celebrated  organist.  The  enormous  labor  and 
application  required  to  go  through  the  preparatory  studies 
alone  would  make  it  seem  almost  impossible  for  one  with 
the  restless  energy  of  the  American  character  to  undertake 
it ;  but,  as  this  very  energy  gives  genius  its  greatest  power, 
7 


98  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

we  may  now  trust  with  confidence  that  Willis,  since  he  has 
nearly  completed  his  studies,  will  win  himself  and  his 
country  honor  in  the  difficult  path  he  has  chosen. 

One  evening,  after  sunset,  we  took  a  stroll  around  the 
promenades.  The  swans  were  still  floating  on  the  little 
lake,  and  the  American  poplar  beside  it  was  in  its  full  au- 
tumn livery.  As  we  made  the  circuit  of  the  walks  guns 
were  firing  far  and  near,  celebrating  the  opening  of  the 
vintage  the  next  day,  and  rockets  went  glittering  and  spark- 
ling up  into  the  dark  air.  Notwithstanding  the  late  hour 
and  lowering  sky,  the  walks  were  full  of  people,  and  we 
strolled  about  with  them  till  it  grew  quite  dark,  watching 
the  fireworks  which  arose  from  the  gardens  around. 

The  next  day  we  went  into  the  Frankfort  wood.     Willis 
and  his  brother-in-law,  Charles  F.  Dennett  of  Boston,  Dr. 
Dix  and  another  young  gentleman   from   the   same   city 
formed  the  party — six  Americans  in  all.     We  walked  over 
the  Main  and  through  the  dirty  suburbs  of  Sachsenhausen, 
where  we  met  many  peasants  laden  with  the  first  day's  vin- 
tage, and  crowds  of  people  coming  down  from  the  vine- 
yards.    As  we  ascended  the  hill  the  sound  of  firing  was 
heard  in  every  direction,  and  from  many  vineyards  arose 
the  smoke  of  fires"  where  groups   of  merry  children  were 
collecting  and  burning  the  rubbish.  We  became  lost  among 
the  winding  paths  of  the  pine-forest ;  so  that  by  the  time 
we  came  out  upon  the  eminence  overlooking  the  valley  of 
the  Main  it  was  quite  dark.    From  every  side,  far  and  near, 
rockets  of  all  sizes  and  colors  darted  high  up  into  the  sky. 
Sometimes  a  flight  of  the  most  brilliant  crimson  and  gold 
lights  rushed  up  together  ;  then,  again,  by  some  farmhouse 
in  the  meadow,  the  vintagers  would  burn  a  Roman  candle, 
throwing  its  powerful  white  light  on  the  gardens  and  fields 
around.     We  stopped  under  a  garden  wall   by  which  a 
laughing  company  were  assembled  in  the  smoke  and  red 
blaze,  and  watched  several  comets  go  hissing  and  glancing 
far  above  us.    The  cracking  of  ammunition  still  continued  ; 


FREILIGRATH.  99 

and  when  we  came  again  upon  the  bridge,  the  city  opposite 
was  lighted  as  if  illuminated.  The  full  moon  had  just 
risen,  softening  and  mellowing  the  beautiful  scene,  while 
beyond,  over  the  tower  of  Frankfort,  rose  and  fell  the  me- 
teors that  heralded  the  vintage. 

Since  I  have  been  in  Frankfort  an  event  has  occurred 
which  shows  very  distinctly  the  principles  at  work  in  Ger- 
many, and  gives  us  some  foreboding  of  the  future.  Ferdi- 
nand Freiligrath,  the  first  living  poet  with  the  exception 
of  Uhland,  has  within  a  few  weeks  published  a  volume  of 
poems  entitled  My  Confession  of  Faith,  or  Poems  for  the 
Times.  It  contains  some  thrilling  appeals  to  the  free  spirit 
of  the  German  people,  setting  forth  the  injustice  under 
which  they  labor  in  simple  but  powerful  language,  and  with 
the  most  forcible  illustrations  adapted  to  the  comprehension 
of  every  one.  Viewed  as  a  work  of  genius  alone,  it  is 
strikingly  powerful  and  original ;  but  when  we  consider  the 
effect  it  is  producing  among  the  people — the  strength  it  will 
add  to  the  rising  tide  of  opposition  to  every  form  of  tyranny 
— it  has  a  still  higher  interest.  Freiligrath  had  three  or 
four  years  before  received  a  pension  of  three  hundred  tha- 
lers  from  the  king  of  Prussia,  soon  after  his  accession  to  the 
throne ;  he  ceased  to  draw  this  about  a  year  ago,  stating  in 
the  preface  to  his  volume  that  it  was  accepted  in  the  belief 
the  king  would  adhere  to  his  promise  of  giving  the  people 
a  new  constitution,  but  that  now,  since  time  has  proved 
there  is  no  dependence  to  be  placed  on  the  king's  word,  he 
must  speak  for  his  people  and  for  his  land. 

The  book  has  not  only  been  prohibited,  but  Freiligrath 
has  exiled  himself  voluntarily  to  escape  imprisonment.  He 
is  now  in  Paris,  where  Heine  and  Herwegh,  two  of  Ger- 
many's finest  poets,  both  banished  for  the  same  reason,  are 
living.  The  free  spirit  which  characterizes  these  men,  who 
come  from  among  the  people,  shows  plainly  the  tendency 
of  the  times,  and  it  is  only  the  great  strength  with  which 
tyranny  here  has  environed  himself,  and  the  almost  lethar- 


100  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

gic  slowness  of  the  Germans,  which  has  prevented  a  change 
ere  this. 

In  this  volume  of  Freiligrath's,  among  other  things,  is  a 
translation  of  Bryant's  magnificent  poem  "The  Winds," 
and  Burns's  "A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That,"  and  I  have 
translated  one  of  his  as  a  specimen  of  the  spirit  in  which 
they  are  written : 

FKEEDOM  AND  RIGHT. 

Oh,  think  not  she  rests  in  the  grave's  chilly  slumber 

Nor  sheds  o'er  the  present  her  glorious  light 
Since  Tyranny's  shackles  the  free  soul  incumber 

And  traitors  accusing  deny  to  us  right. 
No  !     Whether  to  exile  the  sworn  ones  are  wending, 
Or,  weary  of  power  that  crushed  them  unending, 
In  dungeons  have  perished,  their  veins  madly  rending,* 

Yet  Freedom  still  liveth,  and  with  her  the  Right ! 

Freedom  and  Right ! 

A  single  defeat  can  confuse  us  no  longer: 

It  adds  to  the  combat's  fast-gathering  might, 
It  bids  us  but  doubly  to  struggle,  and  stronger 

To  raise  up  our  battle-cry,  "  Freedom  and  Right !" 
For  the  twain  know  a  union  for  ever  abiding, 
Together  in  truth  and  in  majesty  striding; 
Where  Right  is,  already  the  free  are  residing, 

And  ever  where  dwell  the  free  governeth  Right ! 

Freedom  and  Right ! 

And  this  is  a  trust.     Never  made,  as  at  present, 

The  glad  pair  from  battle  to  battle  their  flight — 
Never  breathed  through  the  soul  of  the  downtrodden  peasant 

Their  spirit  so  deeply  its  promptings  of  light. 
They  sweep  o'er  the  earth  with  a  tempest-like  token ; 
From  strand  unto  strand  words  of  thunder  are  spoken ; 
Already  the  serf  finds  his  manacles  broken, 
And  those  of  the  negro  are  falling  from  sight. 

Freedom  and  Right ! 
*This  allusion  is  to  Weidig,  who,  imprisoned  for  years  at  Darm- 
stadt on  account  of  his  political  principles,  finally  committed  suicide 
by  cutting  his  throat  with  the  glass  of  his  prison-window. 


"FREEDOM  AND  RIGHT."  101 

Yes,  everywhere  wide  is  their  war-banner  waving 
On  the  armies  of  Wrong  their  revenge  to  requite ; 

The  strength  of  Oppression  they  boldly  are  braving, 
And  at  last  they  will  conquer,  resistless  in  might. 

O  God  !  what  a  glorious  wreath  then  appearing 

Will  blend  every  leaf  in  the  banner  they're  bearing — 

The  olive  of  Greece  and  the  shamrock  of  Erin, 
And  the  oak-bough  of  Germany,  greenest  in  light  1 

Freedom  and  Right ! 

And  many  who  suffered  are  now  calmly  sleeping 

The  slumber  of  freemen  borne  down  by  the  fight, 
WThile  the  twain  o'er  their  graves  still  a  bright  watch  are  keeping 

Whom  we  bless  for  their  memories — Freedom  and  Right. 
Meanwhile,  lift  your  glasses  to  those  who  have  striven, 
And,  striving  with  bold  hearts,  to  misery  were  driven, 
Who  fought  for  the  Right  and  but  Wrong  then  were  given  1 
To  Right,  the  immortal — to  Freedom  through  Right! 

Freedom  through  Right ! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   WEEK   AMONG   THE   STUDENTS. 

Receiving  a  letter  from  my  cousin  one  bright  December 
morning,  the  idea  of  visiting  him  struck  me,  and  so  within 

an  hour  B and  I  were  on  our  way  to  Heidelberg.     It 

was  delightful  weather ;  the  air  was  mild  as  the  early  days 
of  spring,  the  pine-forests  around  wore  a  softer  green,  and, 
though  the  sun  was  but  a  hand's-breadth  high  even  at  noon, 
it  was  quite  warm  on  the  open  road. 

We  stopped  for  the  night  at  Bensheim  ;  the  next  morn- 
ing was  as  dark  as  a  cloudy  day  in  the  north  can  be,  wear- 
ing a  heavy  gloom  I  never  saw  elsewhere.  The  wind  blew 
the  snow  down  from  the  summits  upon  us,  but,  being  warm 
from  walking,  we  did  not  heed  it.  The  mountains  looked 
higher  than  in  summer,  and  the  old  castles  more  grim  and 


102  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

frowning.  From  the  hard  roads  and  freezing  wind  my  feet 
became  very  sore,  and  after  limping  along  in  excruciating 
pain  for  a  league  or  two  I  filled  my  boots  with  brandy, 
which  deadened  the  wounds  so  much  that  I  was  enabled  to 
go  on  in  a  kind  of  trot,  which  I  kept  up,  only  stopping  ten 
minutes  to  dinner,  till  we  reached  Heidelberg. 

The  same  evening  there  was  to  be  a  general  commers,  or 
meeting  of  the  societies  among  the  students,  and  I  deter- 
mined not  to  omit  witnessing  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  characteristic  features  of  student-life.  So,  borrowing 
a  cap  and  coat,  I  looked  the  student  well  enough  to  pass  for 
one  of  them,  though  the  former  article  was  somewhat  of  the 
Philister  form.  Baader,  a  young  poet  of  some  note  and 
president  of  the  Palatia  Society  having  promised  to  take  us 
there,  we  met  at  eight  o'clock  at  an  inn  frequented  by  the 
students,  and  went  to  the  rendezvous,  near  the  Markt 
Platz. 

A  confused  sound  of  voices  came  from  the  inn  as  we  drew 
near ;  groups  of  students  were  standing  around  the  door. 
In  the  entry  we  saw  the  Red  Fisherman,  one  of  the  most 
conspicuous  characters  about  the  university.  He  is  a  small, 
stout  man  with  bare  neck  and  breast,  red  hair — whence  his 
name — and  a  strange  mixture  of  roughness  and  benevolence 
in  his  countenance.  He  has  saved  many  persons  at  the  risk 
of  his  own  life  from  drowning  in  the  Neckar,  and  on  that 
account  is  leniently  dealt  with  by  the  faculty  whenever  he 
is  arrested  for  assisting  the  students  in  any  of  their  unlawful 
proceedings.  Entering  the  room,  I  could  scarcely  see  at 
first,  on  account  of  the  smoke  that  ascended  from  a  hundred 
pipes.  All  wras  noise  and  confusion.  Near  the  door  sat 
some  half  dozen  musicians  who  were  getting  their  instru- 
ments ready  for  action,  and  the  long  room  was  filled  with 
tables,  all  of  which  seemed  to  be  full,  and  the  students  were 
still  pressing  in. 

The  tables  were  covered  with  great  stone  jugs  and  long 
beer-glasses ;  the  students  were  talking  and  shouting  and 


A  STUDENTS'   COMMERS.  103 

drinking.  One  who  appeared  to  have  the  arrangement  of 
the  meeting  found  seats  for  us  together,  and,  having  made 
a  slight  acquaintance  with  those  sitting  next  us,  we  felt 
more  at  liberty  to  witness  their  proceedings.  They  were  all 
talking  in  a  sociable,  friendly  way,  and  I  saw  no  one  who 
appeared  to  be  intoxicated.  The  beer  was  a  weak  mixture 
which  I  should  think  would  make  one  fall  over  from  its 
weight  before  it  would  intoxicate  him.  Those  sitting  near 
me  drank  but  little,  and  that  principally  to  make  or  return 
compliments.  One  or  two  at  the  other  end  of  the  table 
were  more  boisterous,  and  more  than  one  glass  was  over- 
turned on  the  legs  below  it.  Leaves  containing  the  songs 
for  the  evening  lay  at  each  seat,  and  at  the  head,  where  the 
president  sat,  were  two  swords  crossed,  with  which  he  occa- 
sionally struck  upon  the  table  to  preserve  order.  Our 
president  was  a  fine,  romantic-looking  young  man  dressed 
in  the  old  German  costume,  which  is  far  handsomer  than 
the  modern.  I  never  saw  in  any  company  of  young  men  so 
many  handsome,  manly  countenances.  If  their  faces  were 
any  index  of  their  characters,  there  were  many  noble,  free 
souls  among  them.  Nearly  opposite  to  me  sat  a  young  poet 
whose  dark  eyes  flashed  with  feeling  as  he  spoke  to  those 
near  him. 

After  some  time  passed  in  talking  and  drinking  together, 
varied  by  an  occasional  air  from  the  musicians,  the  presi- 
dent beat  order  with  the  sword,  and  the  whole  company 
joined  in  one  of  their  glorious  songs  to  a  melody  at  the 
same  time  joyous  and  solemn.  Swelled  by  so  many  manly 
voices,  it  rose  up  like  a  hymn  of  triumph  ;  all  other  sounds 
were  stilled.  Three  times  during  the  singing  all  rose  up, 
clashed  their  glasses  together  around  the  tables  and  drank 
to  their  Fatherland,  a  health  and  blessing  to  the  patriot, 
and  honor  to  those  who  struggle  in  the  cause  of  freedom, 
at  the  close  thundering  out  their  motto, 

"  Fearless  in  strife,  to  the  banner  still  true  1" 


104  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

After  this  song  the  same  order  as  before  was  continued, 
except  that  students  from  the  different  societies  made  short 
speeches,  accompanied  by  some  toast  or  sentiment.  One 
spoke  of  Germany,  predicting  that  all  her  dissensions  would 
be  overcome  and  she  would  rise  up  at  last,  like  a  phoenix, 
among  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  at  the  close  gave  "  Strong, 
united,  regenerated  Germany !"  Instantly  all  sprang  to 
their  feet,  and,  clashing  the  glasses  together,  gave  a  thun- 
dering "Hoch  /"  This  enthusiasm  for  their  country  is  one 
of  the  strongest  characteristics  of  the  German  students ; 
they  have  ever  been  first  in  the  field  for  her  freedom,  and 
on  them  mainly  depends  her  future  redemption. 

Cloths  were  passed  around,  the  tables  wiped  off,  and  prep- 
arations made  to  sing  the  Landsfather,  or  consecration  song. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  important  and  solemn  of  their  cere- 
monies, since  by  performing  it  the  new  students  are  made 
burschen  and  the  bands  of  brotherhood  continually  kept 
fresh  and  sacred.  All  became  still  a  moment ;  then  they 
commenced  the  lofty  song: 

"  Silent  bending,  eacli  one  lending 

To  the  solemn  tones  his  e;ir, 
Hark !  the  song  of  songs  is  sounding — 
Back  from  joyful  choir  resounding. 

Hear  it,  German  brothers,  hear! 

"German,  proudly  raise  it  loudly, 

Singing  of  your  Fatherland. — 
Fatherland,  thou  land  of  story, 
To  the  altars  of  thy  glory 

Consecrate  us,  sword  in  hand ! 

"  Take  the  beaker,  plensure-seeker, 

With  thy  country's  drink  brimmed  o'erl 

In  thy  left  the  sword  is  blinking ; 

Pierce  it  through  the  cap  while  drinking 
To  thy  Fatherland  once  more  I" 

With  the  first  line  of  the  last  stanza,  the  presidents,  sit- 
ting at  the  head  of  the  table,  take  their  glasses  in  their 


THE  LANDSFATHER.  105 

right  hands,  and  at  the  third  line  the  sword  in  their  left,  at 
the  end  striking  their  glasses  together  and  drinking: 

"In  left  Land  gleaming,  thou  art  beaming, 
Sword  from  all  dishonor  free ! 
Thus  I  pierce  the  cap,  while  swearing, 
It  in  honor  ever  wearing, 
I  a  valiant  Bursch  will  be !" 

They  clash  their  swords  together  till  the  third  line  is  sung, 
when  each  takes  his  cap,  and,  piercing  the  point  of  the 
sword  through  the  crown,  draws  it  down  to  the  guard. 
Leaving  their  caps  on  the  swords,  the  presidents  stand  be- 
hind the  two  next  students,  who  go  through  the  same  cere- 
mony, receiving  the  swords  at  the  appropriate  time  and 
giving  them  back  loaded  with  their  caps  also.  This  ceremony 
is  going  on  at  every  table  at  the  same  time.  These  two 
stanzas  are  repeated  for  every  pair  of  students,  till  all  have 
gone  through  with  it  and  the  presidents  have  arrived  at  the 
bottom  of  the  table  with  their  swords  strung  full  of  caps. 
Here  they  exchange  swords,  while  all  sing : 

"Come,  thou  bright  sword,  now  made  holy, 

Of  free  men  the  weapon  free ; 
Bring  it  solemnly  and  slowly, 

Heavy  with  pierced  caps,  to  me. 
From  its  burden  now  divest  it; 

Brothers,  be  ye  covered  all. 

And  till  our  next  festival 
Hallowed  and  unspotted  rest  it  1 

"Up,  ye  feast-companions  !  ever 

Honor  ye  our  holy  band, 
And  with  heart  and  soul  endeavor 

E'er  as  high-souled  men  to  stand. 
Up  to  feast,  ye  men  united  ! 

Worthy  be  your  fathers'  fame, 

And  the  sword  may  no  one  claim 
Who  to  honor  is  not  plighted  !" 

Then  each  president,  taking  a  cap  off  his  sword,  reached  it 


106  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

to  the  student  opposite,  and  they  crossed  their  swords,  the 
ends  resting  on  the  two  students'  heads,  while  they  sang  the 
next  stanza  : 

"  So  take  it  back  ;  thy  head  I  now  will  cover 

And  stretch  the  bright  sword  over. 
Live  also  then  this  Bursche.     Hoch  ! 

Wherever  we  may  meet  him, 

Will  we  as  brother  greet  him. 
Live  also  this  our  brother.     Hoch  !" 

This  ceremony  was  repeated  till  all  the  caps  were  given 
back,  and  they  then  concluded  with  the  following : 

"  Best !     The  Burschen-feast  is  over, 
"   Hallowed  sword,  and  thou  art  free  ! 
Each  one  strive  a  valiant  lover 

Of  his  Fatherland  to  be  ! 
Hail  to  him  who,  glory-haunted, 

Follows  still  his  fathers  bold, 

And  the  sword  may  no  one  hold 
But  the  noble  and  undaunted  !" 

The  Landsfather  being  over,  the  students  were  less 
orderly  ;  the  smoking  and  drinking  began  again,  and  we 
left,  as  it  was  already  eleven  o'clock,  glad  to  breathe  the 
pure  cold  air. 

In  the  university  I  heard  Gervinus,  who  was  formerly 
professor  in  Gottingen,  but  was  obliged  to  leave  on  account 
of  his  liberal  principles.  He  is  much  liked  by  the  stu- 
dents, and  his  lectures  are  very  well  attended.  They  had 
this  winter  a  torchlight  procession  in  honor  of  him.  He  is 
a  stout,  round-faced  man,  speaks  very  fast,  and  makes  them 
laugh  continually  with  his  witty  remarks.  In  the  room  I 
saw  a  son  of  Riickert,  the  poet,  with  a  face  strikingly  like 
his  father's.  The  next  evening  I  went  to  hear  Schlosser, 
the  great  historian.  Among  his  pupils  are  the  two  princes 
of  Baden,  who  are  now  at  the  university.     He  came  hur- 


A  DUEL.  107 

riedly  in,  threw  down  his  portfolio  and  began  instantly  to 
speak.  He  is  an  old,  gray-headed  man,  but  still  active  and 
full  of  energy.  The  Germans  find  him  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult to  understand,  as  he  is  said  to  use  the  English  con- 
struction almost  entirely  ;  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  I  under- 
stood him  quite  easily.  He  lectures  on  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, but  is  engaged  in  writing  a  universal  history,  the  first 
numbers  of  which  are  published. 

Two  or  three  days  after,  we  heard  that  a  duel  was  to  take 
place  at  Neuenheim,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Neckar, 
where  the  students  have  a  house  hired  for  that  purpose.  In 
order  to  witness  the  spectacle,  we  started  immediately  with 
two  or  three  students.  Along  the  road  were  stationed  old 
women,  at  intervals,  as  guards,  to  give  notice  of  the  approach 
of  the  police,  and  from  these  we  learned  that  one  duel  had 
already  been  fought  and  they  were  preparing  for  the  other. 
The  Red  Fisherman  was  busy  in  an  outer  room  grinding 
the  swords,  which  are  made  as  sharp  as  razors.  In  the  large 
room  some  forty  or  fifty  students  were  walking  about  while 
the  parties  were  preparing.  This  was  done  by  taking  off 
the  coat  and  vest  and  binding  a  great  thick  leather  garment 
on,  which  reached  from  the  breast  to  the  knees,  completely 
protecting  the  body.  They  then  put  on  a  leather  glove 
reaching  nearly  to  the  shoulder,  tied  a  thick  cravat  around 
the  throat,  and  drew  on  a  cap  with  a  large  vizor.  This  done, 
they  were  walked  about  the  room  a  short  time,  the  seconds 
holding  out  their  arms  to  strengthen  them  ;  their  faces,  all  this 
time  betrayed  considerable  anxiety.  All  being  ready,  the 
seconds  took  their  stations  immediately  behind  them,  each 
armed  with  a  sword,  and  gave  the  words  :  "  Ready  !  Bind 
your  weapons !  Loose  !  "  They  instantly  sprang  at  each 
other,  exchanged  two  or  three  blows,  when  the  seconds  cried 
"  Halt !"  and  struck  their  swords  up.  Twenty-four  rounds 
of  this  kind  ended  the  duel  without  either  being  hurt,  though 
the  cap  of  one  of  them  was  cut  through  and  his  forehead 
grazed.    All  their  duels  do  not  end  so  fortunately,  however, 


108  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

as  the  frightful  scars  on  the  faces  of  many  of  those  present 
testified. 

It  is  a  gratification  to  know  that  but  a  small  portion  of 
the  students  keep  up  this  barbarous  custom.  The  great 
body  is  opposed  to  it ;  in  Heidelberg  four  societies,  compris- 
ing more  than  one-half  the  students,  have  been  formed  against 
it.  A  strong  desire  for  such  a  reform  seems  to  prevail,  and 
the  custom  will  probably  be  totally  discontinued  in  a  short 
time. 

This  view  of  the  student-life  was  very  interesting  to  me ; 
it  appeared  in  a  much  better  light  than  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  view  it.  Their  peculiar  customs,  except  duelling 
and  drinking,  of  course,  may  be  the  better  tolerated  when 
we  consider  their  effect  on  the  liberty  of  Germany.  It  is 
principally  through  them  that  a  free  spirit  is  kept  alive ; 
they  have  ever  been  foremost  to  rise  up  for  their  fatherland 
and  bravest  in  its  defence.  And,  though  many  of  their  cus- 
toms have  so  often  been  held  up  to  ridicule,  among  no  other 
class  can  one  find  warmer,  truer  or  braver  hearts. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

CHRISTMAS   AND   NEW   YEAR   IN   GERMANY. 

January  2,  1845. 
I  have  lately  been  computing  how  much  my  travels  have 
cost  me  up  to  the  present  time,  and  how  long  I  can  remain 
abroad  to  continue  the  pilgrimage,  with  my  present  expec- 
tations. The  result  has  been  most  encouraging  to  my  plan. 
Before  leaving  home  I  wrote  to  several  gentlemen  who  had 
visited  Europe,  requesting  the  probable  expense  of  travel 
and  residence  abroad.  They  sent  different  accounts.  E. 
Joy  Morris  said  I  must  calculate  to  spend  at  least  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  a  year ;  another  suggested  a  thousand  dol- 


CHRISTMAS.  109 

lars,  and  the  most  moderate  of  all  said  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  live  in  Europe  a  year  on  less  than  five  hundred  dol- 
lars. Now,  six  months  have  elapsed  since  I  left  home — 
six  months  of  greater  pleasure  and  profit  than  any  year 
of  my  former  life — and  my  expenses  in  full  amount  to 
one  hundred  and  thirty  dollars.  This,  however,  nearly 
exhausts  the  limited  sum  with  which  I  started,  but  through 
the  kindness  of  the  editorial  friends  who  have  been  pub- 
lishing my  sketches  of  travel  I  trust  to  receive  a  remittance 
shortly.  Printing  is  a  business  attended  with  so  little  profit 
here,  as  there  are  already  so  many  workmen,  that  it  is  al- 
most useless  for  a  stranger  to  apply.  Besides,  after  a  tough 
grapple  I  am  just  beginning  to  master  the  language,  and 
it  seems  so  necessary  to  devote  every  minute  to  study  that 
I  would  rather  undergo  some  privation  than  neglect  turning 
these  fleeting  hours  into  gold  for  the  miser  Memory  to  stow 
away  in  the  treasure- van  Its  of  the  mind. 

We  have  lately  witnessed  the  most  beautiful  and  interest- 
ing of  all  German  festivals — Christmas.  This  is  here  pe- 
culiarly celebrated.  About  the  commencement  of  Decem- 
ber the  Christmarkt,  or  fair,  was  opened  in  the  Romerberg, 
and  has  continued  to  the  present  time.  The  booths,  deco- 
rated with  green  boughs,  were  filled  with  toys  of  various 
kinds,  among  which  during  the  first  days  the  figure  of  St. 
Nicholas  was  conspicuous.  There  were  bunches  of  wax 
candles  to  illuminate  the  Christmas  tree,  gingerbread  with 
printed  mottoes  in  poetry,  beautiful  little  earthenware,  bas- 
ket-work and  a  wilderness  of  playthings.  The  5th  of  De- 
cember, being  Nicholas  evening,  the  booths  were  lighted 
up,  and  the  square  was  filled  with  boys  running  from  one 
stand  to  another,  all  shouting  and  talking  together  in  the 
most  joyous  confusion.  Nurses  were  going  around  carrying 
the  smaller  children  in  their  arms,  and  parents  bought  pres- 
ents decorated  with  sprigs  of  pine  and  carried  them  away. 
Some  of  the  shops  had  beautiful  toys — as,  for  instance,  a 
whole  grocery  store  in  miniature,  with  barrels,  boxes  and 


110  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

drawers  all  filled  with  sweetmeats,  a  kitchen  with  a  stove 
and  all  suitable  utensils  which  could  really  be  used,  and 
sets  of  dishes  of  the  most  diminutive  patterns.  All  was  a 
scene  of  activity  and  joyous  feeling. 

Many  of  the  tables  had  bundles  of  rods  with  gilded 
bands,  which  were  to  be  used  that  evening  by  the  persons 
who  represented  St.  Nicholas.  In  the  family  with  whom 
we  reside  one  of  our  German  friends  dressed  himself  very 
comically  with  a  mask,  fur  robe  and  long  tapering  cap.  He 
came  in  with  a  bunch  of  rods  and  a  sack,  and  a  broom 
for  a  sceptre.  After  we  all  had  received  our  share  of  the 
beating  he  threw  the  contents  of  his  bag  on  the  table,  and 
while  we  were  scrambling  for  the  nuts  and  apples  gave  us 
many  smart  raps  over  the  fingers.  In  many  families  the 
children  are  made  to  say,  "  I  thank  you,  Herr  Nicolaus," 
and  the  rods  are  hung  up  in  the  room  till  Christmas  to  keep 
them  in  good  behavior.  This  was  only  a  forerunner  of  the 
Christ-kindchen's  coming.  The  Nicolaus  is  the  punishing 
spirit;  the  Christ-kindchen,  the  rewarding  one. 

When  this  time  was  over,  we  all  began  preparing  secretly 
our  presents  for  Christmas.  Every  day  there  were  consul- 
tations about  the  things  which  should  be  obtained.  It  was 
so  arranged  that  all  should  interchange  presents,  but  nobody 
must  know  beforehand  what  he  would  receive.  What  pleas- 
ure there  was  in  all  these  secret  purchases  and  preparations! 
Scarcely  anything  was  thought  or  spoken  of  but  Christmas, 
and  every  day  the  consultations  became  more  numerous  and 
secret.  The  trees  were  bought  some  time  beforehand,  but, 
as  we  were  to  witness  the  festival  for  the  first  time,  we  were 
not  allowed  to  see  them  prepared,  in  order  that  the  effect 
might  be  as  great  as  possible.  The  market  in  the  Romer- 
berg  Square  grew  constantly  larger  and  more  brilliant. 
Every  night  it  was  lit  up  with  lamps  and  thronged  with 
people.  Quite  a  forest  sprang  up  in  the  street  before  our 
door.  The  old  stone  house  opposite  with  the  traces  of  so 
many  centuries  on  its  dark  face  seemed  to  stand  in  the  midst 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE.  Ill 

of  a  garden.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  go  out  every  evening  and 
see  the  children  rushing  to  and  fro,  shouting  and  seeking 
out  toys  from  the  booths,  and  talking  all  the  time  of  the 
Christmas  that  was  so  near.  The  poor  people  went  by  with 
their  little  presents  hid  under  their  cloaks  lest  their  children 
might  see  them;  every  heart  was  glad  and  every  counte- 
nance wore  a  smile  of  secret  pleasure. 

Finally  the  day  before  Christmas  arrived.  The  streets 
were  so  full  I  could  scarce  make  my  way  through,  and  the 
sale  of  trees  went  on  more  rapidly  than  ever.  These  were 
commonly  branches  of  pine  or  fir  set  upright  in  a  little 
miniature  garden  of  moss.  When  the  lamps  were  lighted 
at  night,  our  street  had  the  appearance  of  an  illuminated 
garden.  We  were  prohibited  from  entering  the  rooms  up 
stairs  in  which  the  grand  ceremony  was  to  take  place,  being 
obliged  to  take  our  seats  in  those  arranged  for  the  guests, 
and  wait  with  impatience  the  hour  when  Christ-kindchen 
should  call.  Several  relations  of  the  family  came,  and, 
what  was  more  agreeable,  they  brought  with  them  five  or 
six  children.  I  was  anxious  to  see  how  they  would  view 
the  ceremony. 

Finally,  in  the  middle  of  an  interesting  conversation,  we 
heard  the  bell  ringing  up  stairs.  We  all  started  up  and 
made  for  the  door.  I  ran  up  the  steps  with  the  children  at 
my  heels,  and  at  the  top  met  a  blaze  of  light  coming  from 
the  open  door  that  dazzled  me.  In  each  room  stood  a  great 
table  on  which  the  presents  Avere  arranged  amid  flowers  and 
wreaths.  From  the  centre  rose  the  beautiful  Christmas 
tree,  covered  with  wax  tapers  to  the  very  top,  which  made 
it  nearly  as  light  as  day,  while  every  bough  was  hung  with 
sweetmeats  and  gilded  nuts.  The  children  ran  shouting 
around  the  table,  hunting  their  presents,  while  the  older 
persons  had  theirs  pointed  out  to  them.  I  had  quite  a  little 
library  of  German  authors  as  my  share,  and  many  of  the 
others  received  quite  valuable  gifts.  But  how  beautiful 
was  the  heartfelt  joy  that  shone  on  every  countenance  !    As 


112  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

each  one  discovered  lie  embraced  the  givers,  and  all  was  a 
scene  of  the  purest  feelings.  It  is  a  glorious  feast,  this 
Christmas-time.  What  a  chorus  from  happy  hearts  went 
up  on  that  evening  to  Heaven  !  Full  of  poetry  and  feeling 
and  glad  associations,  it  is  here  anticipated  with  joy  and 
leaves  a  pleasant  memory  behind  it.  We  may  laugh  at 
such  simple  festivals  at  home  and  prefer  to  shake  ourselves 
loose  from  every  shackle  that  bears  the  rust  of  the  past,  but 
we  would  certainly  be  happier  if  some  of  these  beautiful  old 
customs  were  better  honored.  They  renew  the  bond  of 
feeling  between  families  and  friends  and  strengthen  their 
kindly  sympathy ;  even  lifelong  friends  require  occasions 
of  this  kind  to  freshen  the  wreath  that  binds  them  together. 

New  Year's  eve  is  also  favored  with  a  peculiar  celebra- 
tion in  Germany-  Everybody  remains  up  and  makes  him- 
self merry  till  midnight.  The  Christmas  trees  are  again 
lighted,  and  while  the  tapers  are  burning  down  the  family 
play  for  articles  which  they  have  purchased  and  hung  on 
the  boughs.  It  is  so  arranged  that  each  one  shall  win  as 
much  as  he  gives,  which  change  of  articles  makes  much 
amusement.  One  of  the  ladies  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of 
a  red  silk  handkerchief  and  a  cake  of  soap,  while  a  cup  and 
saucer  and  a  pair  of  scissors  fell  to  my  lot.  As  midnight 
drew  near  it  was  louder  in  the  streets,  and  companies  of 
people,  some  of  them  singing  in  chorus,  passed  by  on  their 
way  to  the  Zeil.  Finally  three-quarters  struck,  the  windows 
were  opened  and  every  one  waited  anxiously  for  the  clock 
to  strike.  At  the  first  sound  such  a  cry  arose  as  one  may 
imagine  when  thirty  or  forty  thousand  persons  all  set  their 
lungs  going  at  once.  Everybody  in  the  house,  in  the  street, 
over  the  whole  city,  shouted  "Prosst  Neu  Jahr  /"  In  fam- 
ilies all  the  members  embrace  each  other,  with  wishes  of 
happiness  for  the  new  year.  Then  the  windows  are  thrown 
open,  and  they  cry  to  their  neighbors  or  those  passing  by. 

After  we  had  exchanged  congratulations,  Dennett,  B 

and  I  set  out  for  the  Zeil.     The  streets  were  full  of  people, 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.  113 

shouting  to  one  another  and  to  those  standing  at  the  open 
windows.  We  failed  not  to  cry,  "Prosst  Neu  Jahr  !"  wher- 
ever we  saw  a  damsel  at  the  window,  and  the  words  came 
back  to  us  more  musically  than  we  sent  them.  Along  the 
Zeil  the  spectacle  was  most  singular.  The  great  wide  street 
was  filled  with  companies  of  men  marching  up  and  down, 
Avhile  from  the  mass  rang  up  one  deafening,  unending  shout 
that  seemed  to  pierce  the  black  sky  above.  The  whole 
scene  looked  stranger  and  wilder  from  the  flickering  light 
of  the  swinging  lamps,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  it 
must  resemble  a  night  in  Paris  during  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. We  joined  the  crowd  and  used  our  lungs  as  well  as 
any  of  them.  For  some  time  after  we  returned  home  com- 
panies passed  by  singing  "  With  us  'tis  ever  so !"  but  at 
three  o'clock  all  was  again  silent. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


WINTER    IN    FRANKFORT. — A    FAIR,   AN   INUNDATION    AND 

A    FIRE. 

After  New  Year,  the  Main,  just  above  the  city,  and  the 
lakes  in  the  promenades  were  frozen  over.  The  ice  was 
tried  by  the  police,  and,  having  been  found  of  sufficient 
thickness,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  schoolboys,  permission 
was  given  to  skate.  The  lakes  were  soon  covered  with 
merry  skaters,  and  every  afternoon  the  banks  were  crowded 
with  spectators.  It  was  a  lively  sight  to  see  two  or  three 
hundred  persons  darting  about,  turning  and  crossing  like  a 
flock  of  crows,  while  by  means  of  arm-chairs  mounted  on 
runners  the  ladies  were  enabled  to  join  in  the  sport  and 
whirl  around  among  them.  Some  of  the  broad  meadows 
near  the  city  which  were  covered  with  water  were  the  re- 
8 


114  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

sort  of  the  schools.  I  went  there  often  in  my  walks,  and 
always  found  two  or  three  schools,  Avith  the  teachers,  all 
skating  together  and  playing  their  winter  games  on  the  ice. 
I  have  often  seen  them  on  the  meadows  along  the  Main  ; 
the  teachers  generally  made  quite  as  much  noise  as  the 
scholars  in  their  sports. 

In  the  art-institute  I  saw  the  picture  of  "  Huss  before  the 
Council  of  Constance,"  by  the  painter  Leasing.  It  contains 
upward  of  twenty  figures.  The  artist  has  shown  the  great- 
est skill  in  the  expression  and  grouping  of  these.  Bishops 
and  cardinals  in  their  splendid  robes  are  seated  around  a 
table  covered  with  parchment  folios,  and  before  them  stands 
Huss  alone.  His  face  pale  and  thin  with  long  imprison- 
ment, he  has  lain  one  hand  on  his  breast,  while  with  the 
other  he  has  grasped  one  of  the  volumes  on  the  table  ;  there 
is  an  air  of  majesty,  of  heavenly  serenity,  on  his  lofty  fore- 
head and  calm  eye.  One  feels  instinctively  that  he  has 
truth  on  his  side.  There  can  be  no  deception,  no  falsehood, 
in  those  noble  features.  The  three  Italian  cardinals  before 
him  appear  to  be  full  of  passionate  rage  ;  the  bishop  in  front, 
who  holds  the  imperial  pass  given  to  Huss,  looks  on  with  an 
expression  of  scorn,  and  the  priests  around  have  an  air  of 
mingled  curiosity  and  hatred.  There  is  one,  however,  in 
whose  mild  features  and  tearful  eye  is  expressed  sympathy 
and  pity  for  the  prisoner.  It  is  said  this  picture  has  had 
a  great  effect  upon  Catholics  who  have  seen  it,  in  softening 
the  bigotry  with  which  they  regarded  the  early  Reformers ; 
and  if  so,  it  is  a  triumphant  proof  how  much  Art  can  effect 
in  the  cause  of  truth  and  humanity. 

I  was  much  interested  in  a  cast  of  the  statue  of  St. 
George  by  the  old  Italian  sculptor  Donatello.  It  is  a  figure 
full  of  youth  and  energy,  with  a  countenance  that  seems  to 
breathe.  Donatello  was  the  teacher  of  Michael  Angelo ; 
and  when  the  young  sculptor  was  about  setting  off  for 
Rome,  he  showed  him  the  statue,  his  favorite  work. 
Michael  gazed  at  it  long  and  intensely,  and  at  length,  on 


THE  ESCHERNHEIM   TOWER.  115 

parting,  said  to  Donatello,  "  It  wants  but  one  thing."  The 
artist  pondered  long  over  this  expression,  for  he  could  not 
imagine  in  what  could  fail  the  matchless  figure.  At  length, 
after  many  years,  Michael  Angelo,  in  the  noon  of  his  re- 
nown, visited  the  death-bed  of  his  old  master.  Donatello 
begged  to  know  before  he  died  what  was  wanting  to  his  St. 
George.  Angelo  answered,  "  The  gift  of  speech,"  and  a 
smile  of  triumph  lighted  the  old  man's  face  as  he  closed  his 
eyes  for  ever. 

The  Eschernheim  Tower,  at  the  entrance  of  one  of  the 
city  gates,  is  universally  admired  by  strangers  on  account  of 
its  picturesque  appearance,  overgrown  with  ivy  and  termi- 
nated by  the  little  pointed  turrets  which  one  sees  so  often 
in  Germany  on  buildings  three  or  four  centuries  old. 
There  are  five  other  watch-towers  of  similar  form,  which 
stand  on  different  sides  of  the  city  at  the  distance  of  a  mile 
or  two,  and  generally  upon  an  eminence  overlooking  the 
country.  They  were  erected  several  centuries  ago  to  dis- 
cern from  afar  the  approach  of  an  enemy,  and  protect  the 
caravans  of  merchants  which  at  that  time  travelled  from 
city  to  city  from  the  attacks  of  robbers.  The  Eschernheim 
Tower  is  interesting  from  another  circumstance  which, 
whether  true  or  not,  is  universally  believed.  When  Frank- 
fort was  under  the  sway  of  a  prince,  a  Swiss  hunter,  for 
some  civil  offence,  was  condemned  to  die.  He  begged  his 
life  from  the  prince,  who  granted  it  only  on  condition  that 
he  should  fire  the  figure  nine  with  his  rifle  through  the 
vane  of  this  tower.  He  agreed,  and  did  it;  and  at  the 
present  time  one  can  distinguish  a  rude  nine  on  the  vane, 
as  if  cut  with  bullets,  while  two  or  three  marks  at  the  side 
appear  to  be  from  shots  that  failed. 

The  promise  of  spring  Avhich  lately  visited  us  was  not 
destined  for  fulfilment.  Shortly  afterward  it  grew  cold 
again,  with  a  succession  of  snows  and  sharp  northerly 
winds.  Such  weather  at  the  commencement  of  spring  is 
not  uncommon  at  home ;  but  here  they  say  there  has  not 


116  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

been  such  a  winter  known  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
In  the  North  of  Prussia  many  persons  have  been  starved 
to  death  on  account  of  provisions  becoming  scarce.  Among 
the  Hartz,  also,  the  suffering  is  very  great.  We  saw  some- 
thing of  the  misery  even  here.  It  was  painful  to  walk 
through  the  streets  and  see  so  many  faces  bearing  plainly 
the  marks  of  want,  so  many  pale,  hollow-eyed  creatures 
with  suffering  written  on  every  feature.  We  were  assailed 
with  petitions  for  help  which  could  not  be  relieved,  though 
it  pained  and  saddened  the  heart  to  deny.  The  women, 
too,  labor  like  brutes  day  after  day.  Many  of  them  ap- 
pear cheerful  and  contented,  and  are,  no  doubt,  tolerably 
happy,  for  the  Germans  have  all  true,  warm  hearts  and  are 
faithful  to  one  another  as  far  as  poverty  will  permit ;  but 
one  cannot  see  old,  gray-headed  women  carrying  loads  on 
their  heads  as  heavy  as  themselves,  exposed  to  all  kinds  of 
weather  and  working  from  morning  till  night,  without  pity 
and  indignation. 

So  unusually  severe  has  been  the  weather  that  the  deer 
and  hares  in  the  mountains  near  came  nearly  starved  and 
tamed  down  by  hunger  into  the  villages  to  hunt  food.  The 
people  fed  them  every  day,  and  also  carried  grain  into  the 
fields  for  the  partridges  and  pheasants,  who  flew  up  to  them 
like  domestic  fowls.  The  poor  ravens  made  me  really 
sorry ;  some  lay  dead  in  the  fields  and  many  came  into  the 
city  perfectly  tame,  flying  along  the  Main  with  wings 
hardly  strong  enough  to  bear  up  their  skeleton  bodies. 
The  storks  came  at  the  usual  time,  but  went  back  again. 
I  hope  the  year's  blessing  has  not  departed  with  them,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  German  superstition. 

March  26. 

We  have  hopes  of  spring  at  last.  Three  days  ago  the 
rain  began,  and  has  continued  with  little  intermission  till 
now.  The  air  is  warm,  the  snow  goes  fast,  and  everything 
seems  to  announce  that  the  long  winter  is  breaking  up. 
The  Main  rises  fast  and  goes  by  the  city  like  an  arrow, 


FRANKFORT  FAIR.  11? 

whirling  large  masses  of  ice  upon  the  banks.  The  hills 
around  are  coming  out  from  under  the  snow,  and  the  lilac- 
buds  in  the  promenades  begin  to  expand  for  the  second 
time. 

The  fair  has  now  commenced  in  earnest,  and  it  is  a  most 
singular  and  interesting  sight.  The  open  squares  are  filled 
with  booths,  leaving  narrow  streets  between  them,  across 
which  canvas  is  spread.  Every  booth  is  open  and  filled 
with  a  dazzling  display  of  wares  of  all  kinds.  Merchants 
assemble  from  all  parts  of  Europe.  The  Bohemians  come 
with  their  gorgeous  crystal  ware ;  the  Nurembergers,  with 
their  toys,  quaint  and  fanciful  as  the  old  city  itself;  men 
from  the  Thiiringian  Forest,  with  minerals  and  canes  ;  and 
traders  from  Berlin,  Vienna,  Paris  and  Switzerland,  with 
dry  goods  and  wares  of  all  kinds.  Near  the  exchange  are 
two  or  three  companies  of  Tyrolese  who  attract  much  of 
my  attention.  Their  costume  is  exceedingly  picturesque. 
The  men  have  all  splendid  manly  figures,  and  honor  and 
bravery  are  written  on  their  countenances.  One  of  the 
girls  is  a  really  handsome  mountain-maiden,  and,  with  her 
pointed,  broad-brimmed  black  hat,  as  romantic-looking  as  one 
could  desire.  The  musicians  have  arrived,  and  we  are  en- 
tertained the  whole  day  long  by  wandering  bands,  some  of 
whom  play  finely.  The  best,  which  is  also  the  favorite 
company,  is  from  Saxony,  called  "  The  Mountain-Boys." 
They  are  now  playing  in  our  street,  and  while  I  write  one 
of  the  beautiful  choruses  from  Norma  comes  up  through 
the  din  of  the  crowd.  In  fact,  music  is  heard  over  the  whole 
city,  and  the  throngs  that  fill  every  street  with  all  sorts  of 
faces  and  dresses  somewhat  relieve  the  monotony  that  was 
beirinnino;  to  make  Frankfort  tiresome. 

We  have  an  ever-varied  and  interesting  scene  from  our 
window.  Besides  the  motley  crowd  of  passers-by,  there  are 
booths  and  tables  stationed  thick  below.  One  man  in  par- 
ticular is  busily  engaged  in  selling  his  store  of  blacking  in 
the  auction  style  in  a  manner  that  would  do  credit  to  a  real 


118  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Down-Easter.  He  has  flaming  certificates  exhibited,  and 
prefaces  his  calls  to  buy  with  a  high-sounding  description 
of  its  wonderful  qualities.  He  has  a  bench  in  front,  where 
he  tests  it  on  the  shoes  of  his  customers ;  or  if  none  of 
these  are  disposed  to  try  it,  he  rubs  it  on  his  own,  which 
shine  like  mirrors.  So  he  rattles  on  with  amazing  fluency 
in  French,  German  and  Italian,  and  this,  with  his  black 
beard  and  moustache  and  his  polite,  graceful  manner,  keeps 
a  crowd  of  customers  around  him ;  so  that  the  wonderful 
blacking  goes  off  as  fast  as  he  can  supply  it. 

April  6. 

Old  Winter's  gates  are  shut  close  behind  us,  and  the  sun 
looks  down  with  his  summer  countenance.  The  air,  after 
the  long  cold  rain,  is  like  that  of  Paradise.  All  things  are 
gay  and  bright,  and  everybody  is  in  motion.  Spring  com- 
menced with  yesterday  in  earnest,  and,  lo !  before  night  the 
roads  were  all  dry  and  fine  as  if  there  had  been  no  rain  for 
a  month,  and  the  gardeners  dug  and  planted  in  ground 
which  eight  days  before  was  covered  with  snow. 

After  having  lived  through  the  longest  winter  here  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  we  were  destined  to  witness  the 
greatest  flood  for  sixty,  and  little  lower  than  any  within  the 
last  three  hundred,  years.  On  the  28th  of  March  the  river 
overflooded  the  high  pier  along  the  Main,  and,  rising  higher 
and  higher,  began  to  come  into  the  gates  and  alleys.  Before 
night  the  whole  bank  was  covered  and  the  water  intruded 
into  some  of  the  booths  in  the  Romerberg.  When  I  went 
there  the  next  morning,  it  was  a  sorrowful  sight.  Persons 
were  inside  the  gate  with  boats ;  so  rapidly  had  it  risen  that 
many  of  the  merchants  had  no  time  to  move  their  wares, 
and  must  suffer  great  damage.  They  were  busy  rescuing 
what  property  could  be  seized  in  the  haste,  and  construct- 
ing passages  into  the  houses  which  were  surrounded.  No 
one  seemed  to  think  of  buying  or  selling,  but  only  on  the 
best  method  to  escape  the  danger.  Along  the  Main  it  was 
still  worse.     From  the  measure,  it  had  risen  seventeen  feet 


FLOODED  OUT.  119 

above  its  usual  level,  and  the  arches  of  the  bridge  were  filled 
nearly  to  the  top.  At  the  Upper-Main  gate  everything  was 
flooded — houses,  gardens,  workshops,  etc. ;  the  water  had 
even  overrun  the  meadows  above  and  attacked  the  city  from 
behind,  so  that  a  part  of  the  beautiful  promenades  lay  deep 
under  water.  On  the  other  side  we  could  see  houses  stand- 
ing in  it  up  to  the  roof.  It  came  up  through  the  sewers 
into  the  middle  of  Frankfort.  A  large  body  of  men  were 
kept  at  work  constructing  slight  bridges  to  walk  on  and 
transporting  boats  to  places  where  they  were  needed.  This 
was  all  done  at  the  expense  of  the  city ;  the  greatest  readi- 
ness was  everywhere  manifested  to  render  all  possible  assist- 
ance. In  the  Fischergasse  I  saw  them  taking  provisions  to 
the  people  in  boats  ;  one  man  even  fastened  a  loaf  of  bread 
to  the  end  of  a  broomstick  and  reached  it  across  the  narrow 
street  from  an  upper-story  window  to  the  neighbor  opposite. 
News  came  that  Hausen,  a  village  toward  the  Taunus,  about 
two  miles  distant,  was  quite  under  water,  and  that  the  peo- 
ple clung  to  the  roofs  and  cried  for  help ;  but  it  was  for- 
tunately false.  About  noon  cannon-shots  were  heard,  and 
twenty  boats  were  sent  out  from  the  city. 

In  the  afternoon  I  ascended  the  tower  of  the  cathedral, 
which  commands  a  wide  view  of  the  valley,  up  and  down. 
Just  above  the  city  the  whole  plain  was  like  a  small  lake 
between  two  and  three  miles  wide.  A  row  of  new-built 
houses  stretched  into  it  like  a  long  promontory,  and  in  the 
middle,  like  an  island,  stood  a  country-seat  with  large  out- 
buildings. The  river  sent  a  long  arm  out  below,  that  reached 
up  through  the  meadows  behind  the  city,  as  if  to  clasp  it 
all  and  bear  it  away  together.  A  heavy  storm  was  raging 
along  the  whole  extent  of  the  Taunus,  but  a  rainbow  stood 
in  the  eastern  sky.  I  thought  of  its  promise  and  hoped,  for 
the  sake  of  the  hundreds  of  poor  people  who  were  suffering 
by  the  waters,  that  it^night  herald  their  fall. 

We  afterward  went  over  to  Sachsenhausen,  which  was,  if 
possible,  in  a  still  more  unfortunate  condition.     The  water 


120  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

had  penetrated  the  passages  and  sewers,  and  from  these 
leaped  and  rushed  up  into  the  streets  as  out  of  a  fountain. 
The  houses  next  to  the  Main,  which  were  first  filled,  poured 
torrents  out  of  the  doors  and  windows  into  the  street  below. 
These  people  were  nearly  all  poor,  and  could  ill  afford  the 
loss  of  time  and  damage  of  property  it  occasioned  them. 
The  stream  was  filled  with  wood  and  boards,  and  even  whole 
roofs  with  the  tiles  on  went  floating  down.  The  bridge  was 
crowded  with  people ;  one  saw  everywhere  mournful  coun- 
tenances and  heard  lamentations  over  the  catastrophe. 
After  sunset  a  great  cloud  filling  half  the  sky  hung  above ; 
the  reflection  of  its  glowing  crimson  tint,  joined  to  the  brown 
hue  of  the  water,  made  it  seem  like  a  river  of  fire. 

What  a  difference  a  little  sunshine  makes!  I  could  have 
forgotten  the  season  the  next  day  but  for  the  bare  trees  and 
swelling  Main  as  I  threaded  my  way  through  the  hundreds 
of  people  who  thronged  its  banks.  It  was  that  soft  warmth 
that  comes  with  the  first  spring  days,  relaxing  the  body  and 
casting  a  dreamy  hue  over  the  mind.  I  leaned  over  the 
bridge  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  it,  and,  listening  to  the  roar- 
ing of  the  water  under  the  arches,  forgot  everything  else  for 
a  time.  It  was  amusing  to  walk  up  and  down  the  pier  and 
look  at  the  countenances  passing  by,  while  the  fantasy  was 
ever  ready,  weaving  a  tale  for  all.  My  favorite  Tyrolese 
were  there,  and  I  saw  a  Greek  leaning  over  the  stone  balus- 
trade wearing  the  red  cap  and  white  frock,  and  with  the 
long  dark  hair  and  fiery  eye  of  the  Orient.  I  could  not  but 
wonder,  as  he  looked  at  the  dim  hills  of  the  Odenwald  along 
the  eastern  horizon,  whether  they  called  up  in  his  mind  the 
purple  isles  of  his  native  archipelago. 

The  general  character  of  a  nation  is  plainly  stamped  on 
the  countenances  of  its  people.  One  who  notices  the  faces 
in  the  streets  can  soon  distinguish  by  the  glance  he  gives  in 
going  by  the  Englishman  or  the  Frenchman  from  the  Ger- 
man, and  the  Christian  from  the  Jew.  Not  less  striking  is 
the  difference  of  expression  between   the  Germans  them- 


NATIONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  121 

selves,  and  in  places  where  all  classes  of  people  are  drawn 
together  it  is  interesting  to  observe  how  accurately  these 
distinctions  are  drawn.  The  hoys  have  generally  handsome, 
intelligent  faces,  and,  like  all  boys,  they  are  full  of  life  and 
spirit,  for  they  know  nothing  of  the  laws  by  which  their 
country  is  chained  down,  and  would  not  care  for  them  if 
they  did.  But,  with  the  exception  of  the  students — who 
talk,  at  least,  of  liberty  and  right — the  young  men  lose  this 
spirit  and  at  last  settle  down  into  the  calm,  cautious,  leth- 
argic citizen.  One  distinguishes  an  Englishman,  and  I 
should  think  an  American  also,  in  this  respect,  very  easily; 
the  former,  moreover,  by  a  certain  cold  stateliness  and  re- 
serve. There  is  something,  however,  about  a  Jew,  whether 
English  or  German,  which  marks  him  from  all  others. 
However  different  their  faces,  there  is  a  family  character 
which  runs  through  the  whole  of  them.  It  lays  principally 
in  their  high  cheek-bones,  prominent  nose  and  thin,  com- 
pressed lips,  which,  especially  in  elderly  men,  gives  a  pecu- 
liar miserly  expression  that  is  unmistakable. 

I  regret  to  say  one  looks  almost  in  vain  in  Germany  for 
a  handsome  female  countenance.  Here  and  there,  perhaps, 
is  a  woman  with  regular  features,  but  that  intellectual  ex- 
pression which  gives  such  a  charm  to  the  most  common  face 
is  wanting.  I  have  seen  more  beautiful  women  in  one  night 
in  a  public  assembly  in  America  than  during  the  seven 
months  I  have  been  on  the  Continent.  Some  of  the  young 
Jewesses  in  Frankfort  are  considered  handsome,  but  their 
features  soon  become  too  strongly  marked.  In  a  public 
walk  the  number  of  positively  ugly  faces  is  really  aston- 
ishing. 

About  ten  o'clock  that  night  I  heard  a  noise  of  persons 
running  in  the  street,  and,  going  to  the  Romerberg,  found 
the  water  had  risen  all  at  once  much  higher,  and  was  still 
rapidly  increasing.  People  were  setting  up  torches  and 
lengthening  the  rafts  which  had  been  already  formed.  The 
lower  part  of  the  city  was  a  real  Venice.     The  streets  were 


122  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

full  of  boats,  and  people  could  even  row  about  in  their  own 
houses,  though  it  was  not  quite  so  bad  as  the  flood  in  Geor- 
gia, where  they  went  up  stairs  to  bed  in  boats.  I  went  to 
the  bridge.  Persons  were  calling  around,  "  The  water !  the 
water  !  It  rises  continually  !"  The  river  rushed  through 
the  arches,  foaming  and  dashing  with  a  noise  like  thunder, 
and  the  red  light  of  the  torches  along  the  shore  cast  a  flick- 
ering glare  on  the  troubled  waves.  It  was  then  twenty-one 
feet  above  its  usual  level.  Men  were  busy  all  around  car- 
rying boats  and  ladders  to  the  places  most  threatened  or 
emptying  cellars  into  which  it  was  penetrating.  The  sud- 
den swelling  was  occasioned  by  the  coming  down  of  the 
floods  from  the  mountains  of  Spessart. 

Part  of  the  upper  quay  cracked  next  morning  and  threat- 
ened to  fall  in,  and  one  of  the  projecting  piers  of  the  bridge 
sunk  away  from  the  main  body  three  or  four  inches.  In 
Sachsenhausen  the  desolation  occasioned  by  the  flood  is  ab- 
solutely frightful ;  several  houses  have  fallen  into  total  ruin. 
All  business  was  stopped  for  the  day  ;  the  exchange  was 
even  shut  up.  As  the  city  depends  almost  entirely  on 
pumps  for  its  supply  of  water,  and  these  were  filled  with 
the  flood,  we  have  been  drinking  the  muddy  current  of  the 
Main  ever  since.  The  damage  to  goods  is  very  great.  The 
fair  was  stopped  at  once,  and  the  loss  in  this  respect  alone 
must  be  several  millions  of  florins.  The  water  began  to 
fall  on  the  1st,  and  has  now  sunk  about  ten  feet ;  so  that 
most  of  the  houses  are  again  released,  though  in  a  bad  con- 
dition. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  room  writing, 
I  heard  all  at  once  an  explosion  like  a  cannon  in  the  street, 
followed  by  loud  and  continued  screams.  Looking  out  the 
window,  I  saw  the  people  rushing  by  with  goods  in  their 
arms,  some  wringing  their  hands  and  crying,  others  running 
in  all  directions.  Imagining  that  it  was  nothing  less  than 
the  tumbling  down  of  one  of  the  old  houses,  we  ran  down 
and  saw  a  store  a  few  doors  distant  in  flames.    The  windows 


WORK  FOR  THE  FIREMEN.  123 

were  bursting  and  flying  out,  and  the  mingled  mass  of 
smoke  and  red  flame  reached  halfway  across  the  street.  We 
learned  afterward  it  was  occasioned  by  the  explosion  of  a 
jar  of  naphtha,  which  instantly  enveloped  the  whole  room 
in  fire,  the  people  barely  escaping  in  time.  The  persons 
who  had  booths  near  were  standing  still  in  despair  while 
the  flames  were  beginning  to  touch  their  property.  A  few 
butchers  who  first  came  up  did  almost  everything.  A  fire- 
engine  arrived  soon,  but  it  was  ten  minutes  before  it  began 
to  play,  and  by  that  time  the  flames  Ave  re  coming  out  of 
the  upper  stories.  Then  the  supply  of  water  soon  failed, 
and,  though  another  engine  came  up  shortly  after,  it  was 
some  time  before  it  could  be  put  in  order ;  so  that  by  the 
time  they  got  fairly  to  work  the  fire  had  made  its  way 
nearly  through  the  house.  The  water  was  first  brought  in 
barrels  drawn  by  horses,  till  some  officer  came  and  opened 
the  fire-plug.  The  police  were  busy  at  work  seizing  those 
who  came  by  and  setting  them  to  work,  and,  as  the  alarm 
had  drawn  a  great  many  together,  they  at  last  began  to 
effect  something.  All  the  military  are  obliged  to  be  out, 
and  the  officers  appeared  eager  to  use  their  authority  while 
they  could ;  for  every  one  was  ordering  and  commanding, 
till  all  was  a  scene  of  perfect  confusion  and  uproar.  I  could 
not  help  laughing  heartily,  so  ludicrous  did  the  scene  ap- 
pear. There  were  little  miserable  engines  not  much  bigger 
than  a  hand-cart  and  looking  as  if  they  had  not  been  used 
for  half  a  century,  the  horses  running  backward  and  for- 
ward, dragging  barrels  which  were  emptied  into  tubs,  after 
which  the  water  was  finally  dipped  up  in  buckets  and  emp- 
tied into  the  engines.  These  machines  can  only  play  into 
the  second  or  third  story,  after  which  the  hose  was  taken 
up  in  the  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  and  made 
to  play  across.  After  four  hours  the  fire  was  overcome,  the 
house  being  thoroughly  burnt  out ;  it  happened  to  have 
double  fire-walls,  which  prevented  those  adjoining  from 
catching  easily. 


124  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE  DEAD  AND  THE  DEAF. — MENDELSSOHN  THE  COM- 
POSER. 

It  is  now  a  luxury  to  breathe.  These  spring  days  are  the 
perfection  of  delightful  weather.  Imagine  the  delicious 
temperature  of  our  Indian  summer  joined  to  the  life  and 
freshness  of  spring,  add  to  this  a  sky  of  the  purest  azure  and 
a  breeze  filled  with  the  odor  of  violets — the  most  exquisite  of 
all  perfumes — and  you  have  some  idea  of  it.  The  meadows 
are  beginning  to  bloom,  and  I  have  already  heard  the  larks 
singing  high  up  in  the  sky.  Those  sacred  birds  the  storks 
have  returned  and  taken  possession  of  their  old  nests  on  the 
chimney-tops ;  they  are  sometimes  seen  walking  about  in 
the  fields  with  a  very  grave  and  serious  air,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  estimation  in  which  they  are  held.  Everybody  is 
out  in  the  open  air ;  the  woods,  although  they  still  look 
wintry,  are  filled  with  people,  and  the  boatmen  on  the  Main 
are  busy  ferrying  gay  parties  across.  The  spring  has  been 
so  long  in  coming  that  all  are  determined  to  enjoy  it  well 
while  it  lasts. 

We  visited  the  cemetery  a  few  days  ago.  The  dead-house, 
where  corpses  are  placed  in  the  hope  of  resuscitation,  is  an 
appendage  to  cemeteries  found  only  in  Germany.  We  were 
shown  into  a  narrow  chamber  on  each  side  of  which  were 
six  cells  into  which  one  could  distinctly  see  by  means  of  a 
large  plate  of  glass.  In  each  of  these  is  a  bier  for  the  body, 
directly  above  which  hangs  a  cord  having  on  the  end  ten 
thimbles,  which  are  put  upon  the  fingers  of  the  corpse ;  so 
that  the  slightest  motion  strikes  a  bell  in  the  watchman's 
room.  Lamps  are  lighted  at  night,  and  in  winter  the  rooms 
are  warmed.  In  the  watchman's  chamber  stands  a  clock 
with  a  dial-plate  of  twenty-four  hours,  and  opposite  every 
hour  is  a  little  plate  wdiich  can  only  be  moved  two  minutes 


MONUMENTS  TO  THE  DEAD.  125 

before  it  strikes.  If,  then,  the  watchman  has  slept  or  neg- 
lected his  duty  at  that  time  he  cannot  move  it  afterward, 
and  his  neglect  is  seen  by  the  superintendent.  In  such  a 
case  he  is  severely  fined,  and  for  the  second  or  third  offence 
dismissed.  There  are  other  rooms  adjoining,  containing 
beds,  baths,  galvanic  battery,  etc.  Nevertheless,  they  say 
there  has  been  no  resuscitation  during  the  fifteen  years  it 
has  been  established. 

We  afterward  went  to  the  end  of  the  cemetery  to  see  the 
bas-reliefs  of  Thorwaldsen  in  the  vault  of  the  Bethmann 
family.  They  are  three  in  number,  representing  the  death 
of  a  son  of  the  present  banker,  Moritz  von  Bethmann,  who 
was  drowned  in  the  Arno  about  fourteen  years  ago.  The 
middle  one  represents  the  young  man  drooping  in  his  chair, 
the  beautiful  Greek  Angel  of  Death  standing  at  his  back 
with  one  arm  over  his  shoulder,  while  his  younger  brother 
is  sustaining  him  and  receiving  the  wreath  that  drops  from 
his  sinking  hand.  The  young  woman  who  showed  us  these 
told  us  of  Thorwaldsen's  visit  to  Frankfort  about  three 
years  ago.  She  described  him  as  a  beautiful  and  venerable 
old  man  with  long  white  locks  hanging  over  his  shoulders, 
still  vigorous  and  active  for  his  years.  There  seems  to  have 
been  much  resemblance  between  him  and  Dannecker — not 
only  in  personal  appearance  and  character,  but  in  the  sim- 
ple and  classical  beauty  of  their  works. 

The  cemetery  contains  many  other  monuments  ;  with  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  by  Launitz  and  an  exquisite  Death- 
Angel  in  sandstone  from  a  young  Frankfort  sculptor,  they 
are  not  remarkable.  The  common  tombstone  is  a  white 
wooden  cross ;  opposite  the  entrance  is  a  perfect  forest  of 
them,  involuntarily  reminding  one  of  a  company  of  ghosts 
with  outstretched  arms.  These  contain  the  names  of  the 
deceased,  with  mottoes,  some  of  which  are  beautiful  and 
touching ;  as,  for  instance,  "  Through  darkness  unto  light ;" 
"  Weep  not  for  her ;  she  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  ;"  "  Slum- 
ber sweet !"  etc.     The  graves  are  neatly  bordered  with  grass 


126  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

and  planted  with  flowers,  and  many  of  the  crosses  have 
withered  wreaths  hanging  upon  them.  In  summer  it  is  a 
beautiful  place ;  in  fact,  the  very  name  of  cemetery  in  Ger- 
man—friedhof,  or  "  court  of  peace  " — takes  away  the  idea 
of  death  ;  the  beautiful  figure  of  the  youth  with  his  inverted 
torch  makes  one  think  of  the  grave  only  as  a  place  of  re- 
pose. 

On  our  way  back  we  stopped  at  the  institute  for  the  deaf; 
for  by  the  new  method  of  teaching  they  are  no  longer  dumb. 
It  is  a  handsome  building  in  the  gardens  skirting  the  city. 
We  applied,  and,  on  learning  we  were  strangers,  they  gave 
us  permission  to  enter.     On  finding  we  were  Americans, 
the  instructress  immediately  spoke  of  Dr.  Howe,  who  had 
visited  the  institute  a  year  or  two  before,  and  was  much 
pleased  to  find  that  Mr.  Dennett  was  acquainted  with  him. 
She  took  us  into  a  room  where  about  fifteen  small  children 
were  assembled,  and,  addressing  one  of  the  girls,  said  in  a 
distinct  tone,  "  These  gentlemen  are  from  America.     The 
deaf  children  there  speak  with  their  fingers;  canst  thou 
speak  so  ?"     To  which  the  child  answered  distinctly,  but 
with  some  effort :  "  No ;  we  speak  with  our  mouths."     She 
then  spoke  to  several  others  with  the  same  success ;  one  of 
the  boys  in  particular  articulated  with  astonishing  success. 
It  was  interesting  to  watch  their  countenances,  which  were 
alive  with  eager  attention,  and  to  see  the  apparent  efforts 
they  made  to  utter  the  words.    They  spoke  in  a  monotonous 
tone,  slowly  and  deliberately,  but  their  voices  had  a  strange 
sepulchral  sound  which  was  at  first  unpleasant  to  the  ear. 
I  put  one  or  two  questions  to  a  little  boy,  which  he  answered 
quite  readily ;  as  I  was  a  foreigner,  this  was  the  best  test 
that  could  be  given  of  the  success  of  the  method.     We  con- 
versed afterward  with  the  director,  who  received  us  kindly 
and  appointed  a  day  for  us  to  come  and  witness  the  system 
more  fully.     He  spoke  of  Dr.  Howe  and  Horace  Mann  of 
Boston,  and  seemed  to  take  a  great  interest  in  the  introduc- 
tion of  his  system  in  America. 


A  DEAF  SCULPTOR.  127 

We  went  again  at  the  appointed  time,  and,  as  their  draw- 
ing-teacher was  there,  we  had  an  opportunity  of  looking 
over  their  sketches,  which  were  excellent.  The  director 
showed  us  the  manner  of  teaching  them  with  a  looking-glass 
in  which  they  were  shown  the  different  positions  of  the  or- 
gans of  the  mouth,  and  afterward  made  to  feel  the  vibra- 
tions of  the  throat  and  breast  produced  by  the  sound.  He 
took  one  of  the  youngest  scholars,  covered  her  eyes,  and, 
placing  her  hand  upon  his  throat,  articulated  the  second 
sound  of  a.  She  followed  him,  making  the  sound  softer  or 
louder  as  he  did.  All  the  consonants  were  made  distinctly 
by  placing  her  hand  before  his  mouth.  Their  exercises  in 
reading,  speaking  with  one  another,  and  writing  from  dic- 
tation succeeded  perfectly.  He  treated  them  all  like  his 
own  children,  and  sought  by  jesting  and  playing  to  make 
the  exercise  appear  as  sport.  They  call  him  "  father  "  and 
appear  to  be  much  attached  to  him. 

One  of  the  pupils,  about  fourteen  years  old,  interested 
me  through  his  history.  He  and  his  sister  were  found  in 
Sachsenhausen,  by  a  Frankfort  merchant,  in  a  horrible  con- 
dition. Their  mother  had  died  about  two  years  and  a  half 
before,  and  during  all  that  time  their  father  had  neglected 
them  till  they  were  near  dead  through  privation  and  filth. 
The  boy  was  placed  in  this  institute,  and  the  girl  in  that  of 
the  orphans.  He  soon  began  to  show  a  talent  for  model- 
ling figures,  and  for  some  time  he  has  been  taking  lessons 
of  the  sculptor  Launitz.  I  saw  a  beautiful  copy  of  a  bas- 
relief  of  Thorwaldsen  which  he  made,  as  well  as  an  origi- 
nal very  interesting  from  its  illustration  of  his  history.  It 
was  in  two  parts.  The  first  represented  himself  and  his 
sister  kneeling  in  misery  before  a  ruined  family-altar  by 
which  an  angel  was  standing,  who  took  him  by  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  he  pointed  to  his  benefactor,  standing 
near ;  the  other  represented  the  two  kneeling  in  gratitude 
before  a  restored  altar  on  which  was  the  anchor  of  Hope. 
From  above  streamed  down  a  light  where  two  angels  were 


128  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rejoicing  over  their  happiness.  For  a  boy  of  fourteen  de- 
prived of  one  of  the  most  valuable  senses  and  taken  from 
such  a  horrible  condition  of  life  it  is  a  surprising  work,  and 
gives  brilliant  hopes  for  his  future. 

We  went  lately  into  the  Romerberg  to  see  the  Kaisersaal 
and  the  other  rooms  formerly  used  by  the  old  emperors  of 
Germany  and  their  Senates.  The  former  is  now  in  the  pro- 
cess of  restoration.  The  ceiling  is  in  the  gorgeous  illumin- 
ated style  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  along  each  side  are  rows  of 
niches  for  the  portraits  of  the  emperors,  which  have  been 
painted  by  the  best  artists  in  Berlin,  Dresden,  Vienna  and 
Munich.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  number  of  the  old 
niches  in  the  hall  should  exactly  correspond  with  the  num- 
ber of  the  German  emperors ;  so  that  the  portrait  of  the 
emperor  Francis  of  Austria,  who  was  the  last,  will  close  the 
long  rank  coming  down  from  Charlemagne.  The  pictures — 
or,  at  least,  such  of  them  as  are  already  finished — are  kept 
in  another  room ;  they  give  one  a  good  idea  of  the  chang- 
ing styles  of  royal  costumes  from  the  steel  shirt  and  helmet 
to  the  jewelled  diadem  and  velvet  robe.  I  looked  with  in- 
terest on  a  painting  of  Frederic  Barbarossa  by  Lessing,  and 
mused  over  the  popular  tradition  that  he  sits  with  his  pala- 
dins in  a  mountain-cave  under  the  castle  of  Kyffhauser, 
ready  to  come  forth  and  assist  his  fatherland  in  the  hour  of 
need.  There  was  the  sturdy  form  of  Maximilian,  the  mar- 
tial Conrad,  and  Ottos,  Siegfrieds  and  Sigismunds  in  plenty, 
many  of  whom  moved  a  nation  in  their  day,  but  are  now 
dust  and  forgotten. 

I  yesterday  visited  Mendelssohn,  the  celebrated  composer. 
Having  heard  some  of  his  music  this  winter,  particularly 
that  magnificent  creation  the  Walpurgisnacht,  I  wished  to 
obtain  his  autograph  before  leaving,  and  sent  a  note  for 
that  purpose.  He  sent  a  kind  note  in  answer,  adding  a 
chorus  out  of  the  Walpurgisnacht  from  his  own  hand.  Af- 
ter this  I  could  not  repress  the  desire  of  speaking  with  him. 
He  received  me  with  true  German  cordiality,  and  on  learn- 


MENDELSSOHN.  129 

ing  I  was  an  American  spoke  of  having  been  invited  to  at- 
tend a  musical  festival  in  New  York.  He  invited  me  to 
call  on  him  if  he  happened  to  be  in  Leipsic  or  Dresden 
when  we  should  pass  through,  and  spoke  particularly  of  the 
fine  music  there.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  man  whose  counte- 
nance bears  so  plainly  the  stamp  of  genius.  He  has  a  glo- 
rious dark  eye,  and  Byron's  expression  of  a  "dome  of 
thought"  could  never  be  more  appropriately  applied  than 
to  his  lofty  and  intellectual  forehead,  the  marble  whiteness 
and  polish  of  which  are  heightened  by  the  raven  hue  of  his 
hair.  He  is  about  forty  years  of  age,  in  the  noon  of  his 
fame  and  the  full  maturity  of  his  genius.  Already  as  a  boy 
of  fourteen  he  composed  an  opera  which  was  played  with 
much  success  at  Berlin ;  he  is  now  the  first  living  composer 
of  Germany.  Moses  Mendelssohn,  the  celebrated  Jewish 
philosopher,  was  his  grandfather,  and  his  father,  now  living, 
is  accustomed  to  say  that  in  his  youth  he  was  spoken  of  as 
the  son  of  the  great  Mendelssohn ;  now  he  is  known  as  the 
father  of  the  great  Mendelssohn. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

JOURNEY   ON   FOOT   FROM    FRANKFORT   TO   CASSEL. 

The  day  for  leaving  Frankfort  came  at  last,  and  I  bade 
adieu  to  the  gloomy,  antique,  but  still  quaint  and  pleasant 
city.  I  felt  like  leaving  a  second  home,  so  much  had  the 
memories  of  many  delightful  hours  spent  there  attached  me 
to  it ;  I  shall  long  retain  the  recollection  of  its  dark  old 
streets,  its  massive  devil-haunted  bridge  and  the  ponderous 
cathedral  telling  of  the  times  of  the  crusaders.  I  toiled  up 
the  long  hill  on  the  road  to  Friedberg,  and  from  the  tower 
at  the  top  took  a  last  look  at  the  distant  city  with  a  heart 
heavier   than   the   knapsack   whose  unaccustomed  weight 


130  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rested  uneasily  on  my  shoulders.  Being  alone — starting  out 
into  the  wide  world  where  as  yet  I  knew  no  one — I  felt 
much  deeper  what  it  was  to  find  friends  in  a  strange  land. 
But  such  is  the  wanderer's  lot. 

We  had  determined  on  making  the  complete  tour  of  Ger- 
many on  foot,  and  in  order  to  vary  it  somewhat  my  friend 
and  I  proposed  taking  different  routes  from  Frankfort  to 
Leipsic.  He  choose  a  circuitous  course  by  way  of  Nurem- 
berg and  the  Thiiringian  forests,  while  I,  whose  fancy  had 
been  running  wild  with  Goethe's  witches,  preferred  looking 
on  the  gloom  and  grandeur  of  the  rugged  Hartz.  We  both 
left  Frankfort  on  the  23d  of  April,  each  bearing  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  same  person  in  Leipsic,  where  we  agreed 
to  meet  in  fourteen  days.  As  we  were  obliged  to  travel  as 
cheaply  as  possible,  I  started  with  but  seventy-nine  florins 
(a  florin  is  forty  cents  American),  well  knowing  that  if  I  took 
more  I  should  in  all  probability  spend  proportionably  more 
also.  Thus,  armed  with  my  passport,  properly  vised,  a 
knapsack  weighing  fifteen  pounds  and  a  cane  from  the  Ken- 
tucky Mammoth  Cave,  I  began  my  lonely  walk  through 
Northern  Germany. 

The  warm  weather  of  the  week  before  had  brought  out 
the  foliage  of  the  willows  and  other  early  trees  ;  violets  and 
cowslips  were  springing  up  in  the  meadows.  Keeping  along 
the  foot  of  the  Taunus,  I  passed  over  great  broad  hills  which 
were  brown  with  the  spring  ploughing,  and  by  sunset  reach- 
ed Friedberg,  a  large  city  on  the  summit  of  a  hill.  The 
next  morning,  after  sketching  its  old  baronial  castle,  I  cross- 
ed the  meadows  to  Nauheim  to  see  the  salt  springs  there. 
They  are  fifteen  in  number  ;  the  water,  which  is  very  warm, 
rushes  up  with  such  force  as  to  leap  several  feet  above  the 
earth.  The  buildings  made  for  evaporation  are  nearly  two 
miles  in  length  ;  a  walk  along  the  top  gives  a  delightful 
view  of  the  surrounding  valleys. 

After  reaching  the  chaussee  again,  I  was  hailed  by  a  wan- 
dering journeyman — or  handwerker,  as  they  are  called — » 


THE  HANDWERKER.  131 

who  wanted  company.  As  I  had  concluded  to  accept  all 
offers  of  this  kind,  we  trudged  along  together  very  pleas- 
antly. He  was  from  Holstein,  on  the  borders  of  Denmark, 
and  was  just  returning  home  after  an  absence  of  six  years, 
having  escaped  from  Switzerland  after  the  late  battle  of 
Luzerne,  which  he  had  witnessed.  He  had  his  knapsack 
and  tools  fastened  on  two  wheels,  which  he  drew  after  him 
quite  conveniently.  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  adroit 
manner  in  which  he  begged  his  way  along  through  every 
village.  He  would  ask  me  to  go  on  and  wait  for  him  at  the 
other  end ;  after  a  few  minutes  he  followed  with  a  handful 
of  small  copper  money,  which  he  said  he  had  "  fought  for" 
— the  handworker's  term  for  begged. 

We  passed  over  long  ranges  of  hills,  with  an  occasional 
view  of  the  Vogelsgebirge,  or  Birds'  Mountains,  far  to  the 
east.  I  knew  at  length,  by  the  pointed  summits  of  the  hills, 
that  we  were  approaching  Giessen  and  the  valley  of  the 
Lahn.  Finally  two  sharp  peaks  appeared  in  the  distance, 
each  crowned  with  a  picturesque  fortress,  while  the  spires 
of  Giessen  rose  from  the  valley  below.  Parting  from  my 
companion,  I  passed  through  the  city  without  stopping ;  for 
it  was  the  time  of  the  university  vacation,  and  Dr.  Liebig, 
the  world- renowned  chemist,  whom  I  desired  to  see,  was 
absent. 

Crossing  a  hill  or  two,  I  came  down  into  the  valley  of 
the  Lahn,  which  flows  through  meadows  of  the  brightest 
green,  with  red-roofed  cottages  nestled  among  gardens  and  or- 
chards upon  its  banks.  The  women  here  wear  a  remarkable 
costume  consisting  of  a  red  bodice  with  white  sleeves,  and 
a  dozen  skirts,  one  above  another,  reaching  only  to  the 
knees.  I  slept  again  at  a  little  village  among  the  hills,  and 
started  early  for  Marburg.  The  meadows  were  of  the  pur- 
est emerald,  through  which  the  stream  wound  its  way  with 
even  borders  covered  to  the  water's  edge  with  grass  so 
smooth  and  velvety  that  a  fairy  might  have  danced  along 
on   it  for  miles  without  stumbling  over  an  uneven  tuft. 


132  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

This  valley  is  one  of  the  finest  districts  in  Germany.  I 
thought,  as  I  saw  the  peaceful  inhabitants  at  work  in  their 
fields,  I  had  most  probably,  on  the  battlefield  of  Brandy- 
wine,  walked  over  the  bones  of  some  of  their  ancestors 
whom  a  despotic  prince  had  torn  from  their  happy  homes 
to  die  in  a  distant  land  fighting  against  the  cause  of  free- 
dom. 

I  now  entered  directly  into  the  heart  of  Hesse-Cassel. 
The  country  resembled  a  collection  of  hills  thrown  together 
in  confusion,  sometimes  a  wide  plain  left  between  them, 
sometimes  a  cluster  of  wooded  peaks,  and  here  and  there  a 
single  pointed  summit  rising  above  the  rest.  The  valleys 
were  green  as  ever,  the  hillsides  freshly  ploughed  and  the 
forests  beginning  to  be  colored  by  the  tender  foliage  of  the 
larch  and  birch.  I  walked  two  or  three  hours  at  a  stretch, 
and  then,  when  I  could  find  a  dry,  shady  bank,  I  would 
rest  for  half  an  hour  and  finish  some  hastily-sketched  land- 
scape, or  lay  at  full  length  with  my  head  on  my  knapsack 
and  peruse  the  countenances  of  those  passing  by.  The  ob- 
servation which  every  traveller  excites  soon  ceases  to  be 
embarrassing.  It  was  at  first  extremely  unpleasant,  but  I 
am  now  so  hardened  that  the  strange  magnetic  influence  of 
the  human  eye,  which  we  cannot  avoid  feeling,  passes  by 
me  as  harmlessly  as  if  turned  aside  by  invisible  mail. 

During  the  day  several  showers  came  by,  but,  as  none 
of  them  penetrated  farther  than  my  blouse,  I  kept  on,  and 
reached  about  sunset  a  little  village  in  the  valley.  I  chose 
a  small  inn  which  had  an  air  of  neatness  about  it,  and  on 
going  in  the  tidy  landlady's  "  Be  you  welcome !"  as  she 
brought  a  pair  of  slippers  for  my  swollen  feet  made  me  feel 
quite  at  home.  After  being  furnished  with  eggs,  milk, 
butter  and  bread  for  supper — which  I  ate  while  listening  to 
an  animated  discussion  between  the  village  schoolmaster 
and  some  farmers — I  was  ushered  into  a  clean,  sanded  bed- 
room, and  soon  forgot  all  fatigue.  For  this,  with  breakfast 
in  the  morning,  the  bill  was  six  and  a  half  groschen — about 


LEGENDARY  HILLS.  133 

sixteen  cents.  The  air  was  freshened  by  the  rain,  and  I 
journeyed  over  the  hills  at  a  rapid  rate.  Stopping  for  din- 
ner at  the  large  village  of  Wabern,  a  boy  at  the  inn  asked 
me  if  I  was  going  to  America.  I  said,  "  No,  I  came  from 
there."  He  then  asked  me  many  silly  questions,  after  which 
he  ran  out  and  told  the  people  of  the  village.  When  I  set 
out  again,  the  children  pointed  at  me  and  cried,  "See  there! 
He  is  from  America !"  and  the  men  took  off  their  hats  and 
bowed. 

T lie  sky  was  stormy,  which  added  to  the  gloom  of  the 
hills  around,  though  some  of  the  distant  ranges  lay  in 
mingled  light  and  shade — the  softest  alternation  of  purple 
and  brown.  There  were  many  isolated  rocky  hills,  two  of 
which  interested  me  through  their  attendant  legends.  One 
is  said  to  have  been  the  scene  of  a  battle  between  the  Ro- 
mans and  Germans,  where  after  a  long  conflict  the  rock 
opened  and  swallowed  up  the  former.  The  other,  which  is 
crowned  with  a  rocky  wall  so  like  a  ruined  fortress  as  at  a 
distance  to  be  universally  mistaken  for  one,  tradition  Bays 
is  the  death-place  of  Charlemagne,  who  still  walks  around 
its  summit  every  night  clad  in  complete  armor.  On  ascend- 
ing a  hill  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  saw  at  a  great  distance 
the  statue  of  Hercules  which  stands  on  the  Wilhelmshohe, 
near  Cassel.  Night  set  in  with  a  dreary  rain,  and  I  stopped 
at  an  inn  about  five  miles  short  of  the  city.  While  tea  was 
preparing  a  company  of  students  came  in  and  asked  for  a 
separate  room.  Seeing  I  was  alone,  they  invited  me  up 
with  them.  They  seemed  much  interested  in  America,  and, 
leaving  the  table  gradually,  formed  a  ring  around  me, 
where  I  had  enough  to  do  to  talk  with  them  all  at  once. 
When  the  omnibus  came  along,  the  most  of  them  went  with 
it  to  Cassel,  but  five  remained  and  persuaded  me  to  set  out 
with  them  on  foot.  They  insisted  on  carrying  my  knapsack 
the  whole  way  through  the  rain  and  darkness,  and  when  I 
had  passed  the  city  gate  with  them  unchallenged  conducted 
me  to  the  comfortable  hotel  Zur  Krone. 


134  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  wake  up  in  the  morning  in  a 
strange  city.  Everything  is  new  ;  you  walk  around  it  for 
the  first  time  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  novelty,  or  the 
not  less  agreeable  feeling  of  surprise  if  it  is  different  from 
your  anticipations.  Two  of  my  friends  of  the  previous  night 
called  for  me  in  the  morning  to  show  me  around  the  city, 
and  the  first  impression,  made  in  such  agreeable  company, 
prepossessed  me  very  favorably.  I  shall  not,  however,  take 
up  time  in  describing  its  many  sights,  particularly  the 
Frederick's  Platz,  where  the  statue  of  Frederick  the  Second, 
who  sold  ten  thousand  of  his  subjects  to  England,  has  been 
re-erected  after  having  lain  for  years  in  a  stable  where  it 
was  thrown  by  the  French. 

I  was  much  interested  in  young  Carl  K ,  one  of  my 

new  acquaintances.  His  generous  and  unceasing  kindness 
first  won  my  esteem,  and  I  found,  on  nearer  acquaintance, 
the  qualities  of  his  mind  equal  those  of  his  heart.  I  saw 
many  beautiful  poems  of  his  which  were  of  remarkable 
merit,  considering  his  youth,  and  thought  I  could  read  in 
his  dark,  dreamy  eye  the  unconscious  presentiment  of  a 
power  he  does  not  yet  possess.  He  seemed  as  one  I  had 
known  for  years. 

He,  with  a  brother-student,  accompanied  me  in  the  after- 
noon to  Wilhelmshbhe,  the  summer-residence  of  the  prince, 
on  the  side  of  a  range  of  mountains  three  miles  west  of  the 
city.  The  road  leads  in  a  direct  line  to  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  which  is  thirteen  hundred  feet  in  height,  sur- 
mounted by  a  great  structure  called  the  Giant's  Castle,  on 
the  summit  of  which  is  a  pyramid  ninety-six  feet  high,  sup- 
porting a  statue  of  Hercules  copied  after  the  Farnese  and 
thirty-one  feet  in  height.  By  a  gradual  ascent  through  beau- 
tiful woods  we  reached  the  princely  residence,  a  magnificent 
mansion  standing  on  a  natural  terrace  of  the  mountain. 
Near  it  is  a  little  theatre  built  by  Jerome  Buonaparte  in 
which  he  himself  used  to  play.  We  looked  into  the  green- 
house in  passing,  where  the  floral  splendor  of  every  zone 


CURIOUS  WATER-WORKS.  135 

was  combined.  There  were  lofty  halls  with  glass  roofs 
where  the  orange  grew  to  a  great  tree,  and  one  could  sit  in 
myrtle-bowers  with  the  brilliant  bloom  of  the  tropics  around 
him.  It  was  the  only  thing  there  I  was  guilty  of  coveting. 
The  greatest  curiosity  is  the  water-works,  which  are  per- 
haps unequalled  in  the  world.  The  Giant's  Castle,  on  the 
summit,  contains  an  immense  tank  in  which  water  is  kept 
for  the  purpose  ;  but,  unfortunately,  at  the  time  I  was  there 
the  pipes,  which  had  been  frozen  through  the  winter,  were 
not  in  condition  to  play.  From  the  summit  an  inclined 
plane  of  masonry  descends  the  mountain  nine  hundred  feet, 
broken  every  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  by  perpendicular 
descents.  These  are  the  cascades  down  which  the  water 
first  rushes  from  the  tank.  After  being  again  collected  in 
a  great  basin  at  the  bottom  it  passes  into  an  aqueduct  built 
like  a  Roman  ruin  and  goes  over  beautiful  arches  through 
the  forest,  where  it  falls  in  one  sheet  down  a  deep  precipice. 
When  it  has  descended  several  other  beautiful  falls  made 
in  exact  imitation  of  nature,  it  is  finally  collected,  and 
forms  the  great  fountain,  which  rises  twelve  inches  in 
diameter  from  the  middle  of  a  lake  to  the  height  of  one 
hundred  and  ninety  feet.  We  descended  by  lovely  walks 
through  the  forest  to  the  Lowenburg,  built  as  the  ruin  of  a 
knightly  castle  and  fitted  out  in  every  respect  to  correspond 
with  descriptions  of  a  fortress  in  the  olden  time,  with  moat, 
drawbridge,  chapel  and  garden  of  pyramidal  trees.  Far- 
ther below  are  a  few  small  houses  inhabited  by  the  de- 
scendants of  the  Hessians  who  fell  in  America,  supported 
here  at  the  prince's  expense. 


136  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

ADVENTURES   AMONG   THE   HARTZ. 

On  taking  leave  of  Carl  at  the  gate  over  the  Gottingen 
road  I  felt  tempted  to  bestow  a  malediction  upon  travelling, 
from  its  merciless  breaking  of  all  links  as  soon  as  formed. 
It  was  painful  to  think  we  should  meet  no  more.  The  tears 
started  into  his  eyes,  and,  feeling  a  mist  gathering  over 
mine,  I  gave  his  hand  a  parting  pressure,  turned  my  back 
upon  Cassel,  and  started  up  the  long  mountain  at  a  desper- 
ate rate.  On  the  summit  I  passed  out  of  Hesse  into  Han- 
over, and  began  to  descend  the  remaining  six  miles.  The 
road  went  down  by  many  "windings,  but  I  shortened  the 
way  considerably  by  a  footpath  through  a  mossy  old  forest. 

The  hills  bordering  the  Weser  are  covered  with  wood, 
through  which  I  saw  the  little  red-roofed  city  of  Miinden 
at  the  bottom.  I  stopped  there  for  the  night,  and  next 
morning  walked  around  the  place.  It  is  one  of  the  old 
German  cities  that  have  not  yet  felt  the  effect  of  the  chang- 
ing spirit  of  the  age.  It  is  still  walled,  though  the  towers 
are  falling  to  ruin.  The  streets  are  narrow,  crooked  and 
full  of  ugly  old  houses,  and,  to  stand  in  the  little  square 
before  the  public  buildings,  one  would  think  himself  born 
in  the  sixteenth  century.  Just  below  the  city  the  Werra 
and  Fulda  unite  and  form  the  Weser.  The  triangular  point 
has  been  made  into  a  public  walk,  and  the  little  steamboat 
was  lying  at  anchor  near,  waiting  to  start  for  Bremen. 

In  the  afternoon  I  got  into  the  omnibus  for  Gottingen. 
The  ride  over  the  wild,  dreary,  monotonous  hills  was  not  at 
all  interesting.  There  were  two  other  passengers  inside, 
one  of  whom,  a  grave,  elderly  man,  took  a  great  interest  in 
America ;  but  the  conversation  was  principally  on  his  side, 
for  I  had  been  taken  with  a  fever  in  Miinden.  I  lay 
crouched  up  in  the  corner  of  the  vehicle,  trying  to  keep  off 


A  MODERATE  CHARGE.  137 

the  chills  which  constantly  came  over  me  and  wishing  only 
for  Gottingen,  that  I  might  obtain  medicine  and  abed.  We 
reached  it  at  last,  and  I  got  out  with  my  knapsack  and 
walked  wearily  through  half  a  dozen  streets  till  I  saw  an 
inn.  But,  on  entering,  I  found  it  so  dark  and  dirty  and 
unfriendly  that  I  immediately  went  out  again  and  hired  the 
first  pleasant-looking  boy  I  met  to  take  me  to  a  good  hotel. 
He  conducted  me  to  the  first  one  in  the  city.  I  felt  a  trep- 
idation of  pocket,  but  my  throbbing  head  plead  more  pow- 
erfully;  so  I  ordered  a  comfortable  room  and  a  physician. 
The  host,  Herr  Wilhelm,  sent  for  Professor  Trefurt  of  the 
university,  who  told  me  I  had  over-exerted  myself  in  walk- 
ing. He  made  a  second  call  the  next  day,  when,  as  he  was 
retiring,  I  inquired  the  amount  of  his  fee.  He  begged  to 
be  excused,  and  politely  bowed  himself  out.  I  inquired 
the  meaning  of  this  of  Herr  Wilhelm,  who  said  it  was  cus- 
tomary for  travellers  to  leave  what  they  chose  for  the  phy- 
sician, as  there  was  no  regular  fee.  He  added,  moreover, 
that  twenty  groschen,  or  about  sixty  cents,  was  sufficient 
for  the  two  visits. 

I  stayed  in  Gottingen  two  dull,  dreary,  miserable  days 
without  getting  much  better.  I  took  but  one  short  walk 
through  the  city,  in  which  I  saw  the  outsides  of  a  few  old 
churches  and  got  a  hard  fall  on  the  pavement.  Thinking 
that  the  cause  of  my  illness  might  perhaps  become  its  cure, 
I  resolved  to  go  on  rather  than  remain  in  the  melancholy — 
in  spite  of  its  black-eyed  maidens,  melancholy — Gottingen. 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  I  took  the  post  to  Nord- 
heim,  about  twelve  miles  distant.  The  Gottingen  valley, 
down  which  we  drove,  is  green  and  beautiful,  and  the  trees 
seem  to  have  come  out  all  at  once.  We  were  not  within 
sight  of  the  Hartz,  but  the  mountains  along  the  Weser  were 
visible  on  the  left.  The  roads  were  extremely  muddy  from 
the  late  rains ;  so  that  I  proceeded  but  slowly. 

A  blue  range  along  the  horizon  told  me  of  the  Hartz  as 
I   passed ;    although   there   were   some  fine  side-glimpses 


138  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

through  the  hills,  I  did  not  see  much  of  them  till  I  reached 
Osterode,  about  twelve  miles  farther.  Here  the  country 
begins  to  assume  a  different  aspect.  The  city  lies  in  a  nar- 
row valley,  and  as  the  road  goes  down  a  steep  hill  toward 
it  one  sees  on  each  side  many  quarries  of  gypsum,  and  in 
front  the  gloomy  pine-mountains  are  piled  one  above  an- 
other in  real  Alpine  style.  But,  alas !  the  city,  though  it 
looks  exceedingly  romantic  from  above,  is  one  of  the  dirtiest 
I  ever  saw.  I  stopped  at  Herzberg,  six  miles  farther,  for 
the  night.  The  scenery  was  very  striking,  and  its  effect 
was  much  heightened  by  a  sky  full  of  black  clouds,  which 
sent  down  a  hail-storm  as  they  passed  over.  The  hills  are 
covered  with  pine,  fir  and  larch.  The  latter  tree  in  its  first 
foliage  is  most  delicate  and  beautiful.  Every  bough  is  like 
a  long  ostrich-plume ;  and  when  one  of  them  stands  among 
the  dark  pines,  it  seems  so  light  and  airy  that  the  wind 
might  carry  it  away.  Just  opposite  Herzberg  the  Hartz 
stands  in  its  gloomy  and  mysterious  grandeur,  and  I  went 
to  sleep  with  the  pleasant  thought  that  an  hour's  walk  on 
the  morrow  would  shut  me  up  in  its  deep  recesses. 

The  next  morning  I  entered  them.  The  road  led  up  a 
narrow  mountain-valley  down  which  a  stream  was  rushing ; 
on  all  sides  were  magnificent  forests  of  pine.  It  was  glo- 
rious to  look  down  their  long  aisles,  dim  and  silent,  with  a 
floor  of  thick  green  moss.  There  was  just  room  enough  for 
the  road  and  the  wild  stream  which  wound  its  way  zigzag 
between  the  hills,  affording  the  most  beautiful  mountain- 
view  along  the  whole  route.  As  I  ascended,  the  mountains 
became  rougher  and  wilder,  and  in  the  shady  hollows  were 
still  drifts  of  snow.  Enjoying  everything  very  much,  I 
walked  on  without  taking  notice  of  the  road,  and  on  reach- 
ing a  wild,  rocky  chasm  called  the  Schlucht  was  obliged  to 
turn  aside  and  take  a  footpath  over  a  high  mountain  to 
Andreasberg,  a  town  built  on  a  summit  two  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea.  It  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  the  work- 
men in  the  mines. 


IN  THE  CLOUDS.  139 

The  way  from  Andreasberg  to  the  Brocken  leads  along 
the  Rehberger  Graben,  which  carry  water  about  six  miles 
for  the  ore-works.  After  going  through  a  thick  pine-wood 
I  came  out  on  the  mountain-side,  where  rough  crags  over- 
hung the  way  above,  and  through  the  tops  of  the  trees  I  had 
glimpses  into  the  gorge  below.  It  was  scenery  of  the  wild- 
est character.  Directly  opposite  rose  a  mountain-wall,  dark 
and  stern  through  the  gloomy  sky  ;  far  below,  the  little 
stream  of  the  Oder  foamed  over  the  rocks  with  a  continual 
roar,  and  one  or  two  white  cloud-wreaths  were  curling  up 
from  the  forests. 

I  followed  the  water-ditch  around  every  projection  of  the 
mountain,  still  ascending  higher  amid  the  same  wild  scen- 
ery, till  at  length  I  reached  the  Oderteich,  a  great  dam  in 
a  kind  of  valley  formed  by  some  mountain-peaks  on  the  side 
of  the  Brocken.  It  has  a  breastwork  of  granite,  very  firm, 
and  furnishes  a  continual  supply  of  water  for  the  works. 

It  began  to  rain  soon,  and  I  took  a  footpath  which  went 
winding  up  through  the  pine-wood.  The  storm  still  in- 
creased, till  everything  was  cloud  and  rain  ;  so  I  was  obliged 
to  stop  about  five  o'clock  at  Oderbruch,  a  toll-house  and 
tavern  on  the  side  of  the  Brocken,  on  the  boundary  between 
Brunswick  and  Hanover — the  second  highest  inhabited 
house  in  the  Hartz.  The  Brocken  was  invisible  through 
the  storm,  and  the  weather  foreboded  a  difficult  ascent. 
The  night  was  cold,  but  by  a  warm  fire  I  let  the  winds  howl 
and  the  rain  beat.  "When  I  awoke  the  next  morning,  we 
wrere  in  clouds.  They  were  thick  on  every  side,  hiding 
what  little  view  there  was  through  the  openings  of  the  for- 
est. After  breakfast,  however,  they  were  somewhat  thin- 
ner, and  I  concluded  to  start  for  the  Brocken.  It  is  not 
the  usual  way  for  travellers  who  ascend,  being  not  only  a 
bad  road,  but  difficult  to  find,  as  I  soon  discovered.  The 
clouds  gathered  around  again  after  I  set  out,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  walk  in  a  storm  of  mingled  rain  and  snow.  The 
snow  lay  several  feet  deep  in  the  forests,  and  the  path  was 


140  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

in  many  places  quite  drifted  over.  The  white  cloud-massea 
were  whirled  past  by  the  wind,  continually  enveloping  me 
and  shutting  out  every  view.  During  the  winter  the  path 
had  become  in  many  places  the  bed  of  a  mountain-torrent ; 
so  that  I  was  obliged  sometimes  to  wade  knee-deep  in  snow, 
and  sometimes  to  walk  over  the  wet,  spongy  moss,  crawling 
under  the  long,  dripping  branches  of  the  stunted  pines. 
After  a  long  time  of  such  dreary  travelling  I  came  to  two 
rocks,  called  the  Stag-Horns,  standing  on  a  little  peak. 
The  storm,  now  all  snow,  blew  more  violently  than  ever, 
and  the  path  became  lost  under  the  deep  drifts. 

Comforting  myself  with  the  assurance  that  if  I  could  not 
find  it  I  could  at  least  make  my  way  back,  I  began  search- 
ing, and  after  some  time  came  upon  it  again.     Here  the 
forest  ceased ;  the  way  led  on  large  stones  over  a  marshy 
ascending  plain,  but  what  was  above  or  on  either  side  I 
could   not  see.     It  was  solitude  of  the  most  awful  kind. 
There  was  nothing  but  the  storm,  which  had  already  wet 
me  through,  and  the  bleak  gray  waste  of  rocks.     It  grew 
steeper  and  steeper ;  I  could  barely  trace  the  path  by  the 
rocks,  which  were  worn,  and  the  snow  threatened  soon  to 
cover  these.    Added  to  this,  although  the  walking  and  fresh 
mountain-air  had  removed  my  illness,  I  was  still  weak  from 
the  effects  of  it,  and  the  consequences  of  a  much  longer  ex- 
posure to  the  storm  were  greatly  to  be  feared.     I  was  won- 
dering, if  the  wind  increased  at  the  same  rate,  how  much 
longer  it  would  be  before  I  should  be  carried  off,  when  sud- 
denly something  loomed  up  above  me  through  the  storm. 
A  few  steps  more,  and  I  stood  beside  the  Brocken  House, 
on  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain.     The  mariner  who 
has  been  floating  for  days  on  a  wreck  at  sea  could  scarcely 
be  more  rejoiced  at  a  friendly  sail  than  I  was  on  entering 
the  low  building.     Two  large  Alpine  dogs  in  the  passage, 
as  I  walked  in  dripping  with  wet,  gave  notice  to  the  in- 
mates, and  I  was  soon  ushered  into  a  warm  room,  where  I 
changed  my  soaked  garments  for  dry  ones  and  sat  down  by 


THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  BROCKEN.  Ill 

the  fire  with  feelings  of  comfort  not  easily  imagined.  The 
old  landlord  was  quite  surprised,  on  hearing  the  path  by 
which  I  came,  that  I  found  the  way  at  all.  The  summit 
was  wrapped  in  the  thickest  cloud,  and  he  gave  me  no  hope 
for  several  hours  of  any  prospect  at  all ;  so  I  sat  down  and 
looked  over  the  strangers'  album. 

I  saw  but  two  names  from  the  United  States — B.  F. 
Atkins  of  Boston,  and  C.  A.  Hay,  from  York,  Pa.  There 
were  a  great  many  long-winded  German  poems — among 
them,  one  by  Schelling,  the  philosopher.  Some  of  them 
spoke  of  having  seen  the  Spectre  of  the  Brocken.  I  in- 
quired of  the  landlord  about  the  phenomenon ;  he  says  in 
winter  it  is  frequently  seen,  in  summer  more  seldom.  The 
cause  is  very  simple.  It  is  always  seen  at  sunrise,  when 
the  eastern  side  of  the  Brocken  is  free  from  clouds,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  mist  rises  from  the  valley  on  the  opposite 
side.  The  shadow  of  everything  on  the  Brocken  is  then 
thrown  in  grand  proportions  upon  the  mist,  and  is  seen  sur- 
rounded with  a  luminous  halo.  It  is  somewhat  singular 
that  such  a  spectacle  can  be  seen  upon  the  Brocken  alone, 
but  this  is  probably  accounted  for  by  the  formation  of  the 
mountain,  which  collects  the  mist  at  just  such  a  distance 
from  the  summit  as  to  render  the  shadow  visible. 

Soon  after  dinner  the  storm  subsided  and  the  clouds  sepa- 
rated a  little.  I  could  see  down  through  the  rifts  on  the 
plains  of  Brunswick,  and  sometimes,  when  they  opened  a 
little  more,  the  mountains  below  us  to  the  east  and  the  ad- 
joining plains  as  far  as  Magdeburg.  It  was  like  looking 
on  the  earth  from  another  planet  or  from  some  point  in  the 
air  which  had  no  connection  with  it ;  our  station  was  com- 
pletely surrounded  by  clouds  rolling  in  great  masses  around 
us,  now  and  then  giving  glimpses  through  their  openings 
of  the  blue  plains,  dotted  with  cities  and  villages,  far  below. 
At  one  time  when  they  were  tolerably  well  separated  I  as- 
cended the  tower,  fifty  feet  high,  standing  near  the  Brocken 
House.     The  view  on  three  sides  was  quite  clear,  and  I  can 


142  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

easily  imagine  what  a  magnificent  prospect  it  must  be  in 
fine  weather.  The  Brocken  is  only  about  four  thousand 
feet  high — nearly  the  same  as  the  loftiest  peak  of  the  Cats- 
kill — but,  being  the  highest  mountain  in  Northern  Ger- 
many, it  commands  a  more  extensive  prospect.  Imagine  a 
circle  described  with  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles,  compris- 
ing thirty  cities,  two  or  three  hundred  villages  and  one 
whole  mountain-district.  We  could  see  Brunswick  and 
Magdeburg,  and  beyond  them  the  great  plain  which  ex- 
tends to  the  North  Sea  in  one  direction  and  to  Berlin  in  the 
other,  while  directly  below  us  lay  the  dark  mountains  of 
the  Hartz,  with  little  villages  in  their  sequestered  valleys. 
It  was  but  a  few  moments  I  could  look  on  this  scene  ;  in 
an  instant  the  clouds  swept  together  again  and  completely 
hid  it.  In  accordance  with  a  custom  of  the  mountain,  one 
of  the  girls  made  me  a  Brocken  nosegay  of  heather,  lichens 
and  moss.  I  gave  her  a  few  pfennings  and  stowed  it  away 
carefully  in  a  corner  of  my  knapsack.  I  now  began  de- 
scending the  east  side  by  a  good  road  over  fields  of  bare 
rock  and  through  large  forests  of  pine.  Two  or  three  bare 
brown  peaks  rose  opposite  with  an  air  of  the  wildest  sub- 
limity, and  in  many  places  through  the  forest  towered  lofty 
crags.  This  is  the  way  by  which  Goethe  brings  Faust  up 
the  Brocken,  and  the  scenery  is  graphically  described  in 
that  part  of  the  poem. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  is  the  little  yillage  of 
Schiercke,  the  highest  in  the  Hartz.  Here  I  took  a  nar- 
row path  through  the  woods,  and  after  following  a  tediously 
long  road  over  the  hills  reached  Elbingerode,  where  I 
spent  the  night,  and  left  the  next  morning  for  Blanken- 
burg.  I  happened  to  take  the  wrong  road,  however,  and 
went  through  Riibeland,  a  little  village  in  the  valley  of  the 
Bode.  There  are  many  iron-works  here,  and  two  celebrated 
caves,  called  Baumann's  Hohle  and  Biel's  Hohle.  I  kept 
on  through  the  gray,  rocky  hills  to  Huttenrode,  where  I 
inquired   the   way   to   the   Rosstrappe,   but   was  directed 


A  MAGNIFICENT  SPECTACLE.  143 

wrong,  and  after  walking  nearly  two  hours  in  a  heavy  rain 
arrived  at  Ludwigshiitte,  on  the  Bode,  in  one  of  the  wild- 
est and  loneliest  corners  of  the  Hartz.  I  dried  my  wet 
clothes  at  a  little  inn,  ate  a  dinner  of  bread  and  milk,  and, 
learning  that  I  was  just  as  far  from  the  Rosstrappe  as  ever 
and  that  the  way  was  impossible  to  find  alone,  I  hunted  up 
a  guide. 

We  went  over  the  mountains  through  a  fine  old  forest  for 
about  two  hours,  and  came  out  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  near 
the  end  of  the  Hartz,  with  a  beautiful  view  of  the  country 
below  and  around.  Passing  the  little  inn,  the  path  led 
through  thick  bushes  along  the  summit,  over  a  narrow  ledge 
of  rocks  that  seemed  to  stretch  out  into  the  air,  for  on 
either  side  the  foot  of  the  precipice  vanished  in  the  depth 
below. 

Arrived  at  last  at  the  end,  I  looked  around  me.  What  a 
spectacle  !  I  was  standing  on  the  end  of  a  line  of  precipice 
which  ran  out  from  the  mountain  like  a  wall  for  several 
hundred  feet,  the  hills  around  rising  up  perpendicularly 
from  the  gorge  below,  where  the  Bode  pressed  into  a  nar- 
row channel  foamed  its  way  through.  Sharp  masses  of  gray 
rock  rose  up  in  many  places  from  the  main  body  like  pil- 
lars, with  trees  clinging  to  the  clefts,  and,  although  the  de- 
file was  near  seven  hundred  feet  deep,  the  summits  in  one 
place  were  very  near  to  one  another.  Near  the  point  at 
which  I  stood,  which  was  secured  by  a  railing,  was  an  im- 
pression in  the  rock  like  the  hoof  of  a  giant  horse,  from 
which  the  place  takes  its  name.  It  is  very  distinct  and 
perfect,  and  nearly  two  feet  in  length. 

I  went  back  to  the  little  inn  and  sat  down  to  rest  and 
chat  a  while  with  the  talkative  landlady.  Notwithstanding 
her  horrible  Prussian  dialect,  I  was  much  amused  with  the 
budget  of  wonders  which  she  keeps  for  the  information  of 
travellers.  Among  other  things,  she  related  to  me  the  legend 
of  the  Rosstrappe,  which  I  give  in  her  own  words :  "  A 
great  many  hundred  years  ago,  when  there  were  plenty  of 


144  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

giants  through  the  world,  there  was  a  certain  beautiful 
princess  who  was  very  much  loved  by  one  of  them.  Now, 
although  the  parents  of  this  princess  were  afraid  of  the  giant 
and  wanted  her  to  marry  him,  she  herself  hated  him,  be- 
cause she  was  in  love  with  a  brave  knight.  But,  you  see, 
the  brave  knight  could  do  nothing  against  the  great  giant, 
and  so  a  day  was  appointed  for  the  wedding  of  the  princess. 
When  they  were  married,  the  giant  had  a  great  feast,  and 
he  and  all  his  servants  got  drunk  ;  so  the  princess  mounted 
his  black  horse  and  rode  away  over  the  mountains  till  she 
reached  this  valley.  She  stood  on  that  square  rock  which 
you  see  there  opposite  to  us ;  and  when  she  saw  her  knight 
on  this  side,  where  we  are,  she  danced  for  joy,  and  the  rock 
is  called  the  Tanzplatz  to  this  very  day.  But  when  the 
giant  found  she  had  gone,  he  followed  her  as  fast  as  he 
might ;  then  a  holy  bishop  who  saw  the  princess  blessed  the 
feet  of  her  horse,  and  she  jumped  on  it  across  to  this  side, 
where  his  fore  feet  made  two  marks  in  the  rock,  though 
there  is  only  one  left  now.  You  should  not  laugh  at  this ; 
for  if  there  were  giants  then,  there  must  have  been  very  big 
horses  too,  as  one  can  see  from  the  hoof-mark,  and  the  valley 
was  narrower  then  than  it  is  now.  My  dear  man,  who  is 
very  old  now  (you  see  him  through  the  bushes,  there,  dig- 
ging) says  it  was  so  when  he  was  a  child,  and  that  the  old 
people  living  then  told  him  there  were  once  four  just  such 
hoof-tracks  on  the  Tanzplatz  where  the  horse  stood  before 
he  jumped  over.  And  we  cannot  doubt  the  words  of  the 
good  old  people,  for  there  were  many  strange  things  then, 
we  all  know,  which  the  dear  Lord  does  not  let  happen  now. 
But  I  must  tell  you,  Lieber  Herr,  that  the  giant  tried  to 
jump  after  her  and  fell  away  down  into  the  valley,  where 
they  say  he  lives  yet  in  the  shape  of  a  big  black  dog,  guard- 
ing the  crown  of  the  princess,  which  fell  off  as  she  was  going 
over.  But  this  part  of  the  story  is  perhaps  not  true,  as  no- 
body that  I  ever  heard  of  has  seen  either  the  black  dog  or 
the  crown." 


BEER-SOUP.  145 

After  listening  to  similar  gossip  for  a  while,  I  descended 
the  mountain-side  a  short  distance  to  the  Biilowshohe.  This 
is  a  rocky  shaft  that  shoots  upward  from  the  mountain, 
having  from  its  top  a  glorious  view  through  the  door  which 
the  Bode  makes  in  passing  out  of  the  Hartz.  I  could  see 
at  a  great  distance  the  towers  of  Magdeburg,  and  farther 
the  vast  plain  stretching  away  like  a  sea  toward  Berlin. 
From  Thale,  the  village  below,  where  the  air  was  warmer 
than  in  the  Hartz  and  the  fruit  trees  already  in  blossom,  it 
was  four  hours'  walk  to  Halberstadt  by  a  most  tiresome 
road  over  long  ranges  of  hills,  all  ploughed  and  planted, 
and  extending,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  without  a  sin- 
gle fence  or  hedge.  It  is  pleasant  to  look  over  scenes  where 
Nature  is  so  free  and  unshackled,  but  the  people,  alas !  wear 
the  fetters.  The  setting  sun,  which  lighted  up  the  old 
Brocken  and  his  snowy  top,  showed  me  also  Halberstadt, 
the  end  of  my  Hartz  journey ;  but  its  deceitful  towers  fled 
as  I  approached,  and  I  was  half  dead  with  fatigue  on  ar- 
riving there. 

The  ghostly,  dark  and  echoing  castle  of  an  inn  (the 
Black  Eagle)  where  I  stopped  was  enough  to  inspire  a 
lonely  traveller  like  myself  with  unpleasant  fancies.  It 
looked  heavy  and  massive  enough  to  have  been  a  stout  bar- 
on's stronghold  in  some  former  century ;  the  taciturn  land- 
lord and  his  wife,  who,  with  a  solemn  servant-girl,  were  the 
only  tenants,  had  grown  into  perfect  keeping  with  its  gloomy 
character.  When  I  groped  my  way  under  the  heavy  arched 
portal  into  the  guests'  room — a  large,  lofty,  cheerless  hall — 
all  was  dark,  and  I  could  barely  perceive  by  the  little  light 
which  came  through  two  deep-set  windows  the  inmates  of 
the  house  sitting  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room.  After  some 
delay,  the  hostess  brought  a  light.  I  entreated  her  to  bring 
me  something  instantly  for  supper,  and  in  half  an  hour  she 
placed  a  mixture  on  the  table  the  like  of  which  I  never 
wish  to  taste  again.  She  called  it  beer-soup.  I  found  on 
examination  it  was  beer  boiled  with  meat  and  seasoned 
10 


146  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

strongly  with  pepper  and  salt.  My  hunger  disappeared, 
and,  pleading  fatigue  as  an  excuse  for  want  of  appetite,  I 
left  the  table. 

When  I  was  ready  to  retire,  the  landlady,  who  had  been 
sitting  silently  in  a  dark  corner,  called  the  solemn  servant- 
girl,  who  took  up  a  dim  lamp  and  bade  me  follow  her  to 
the  "sleeping-chamber."  Taking  up  my  knapsack  and 
staff,  I  stumbled  down  the  steps  into  the  arched  gateway ; 
before  me  was  a  long,  damp,  deserted  court-yard  across 
which  the  girl  took  her  way.  I  followed  her  with  some  as- 
tonishment, imagining  where  the  sleeping-chamber  could 
be,  when  she  stopped  at  a  small  one-story  building  standing 
alone  in  the  yard.  Opening  the  door  with  a  rusty  key,  she 
led  me  into  a  bare  room  a  few  feet  square,  opening  into  an- 
other equally  bare  with  the  exception  of  a  rough  bed. 
"Certainly,"  said  I,  "  I  am  not  to  sleep  here  ?" — "Yes,"  she 
answered ;  "  this  is  the  sleeping-chamber,"  at  the  same  time 
setting  down  the  light  and  disappearing. 

I  examined  the  place ;  it  smelt  mouldy  and  the  walls 
were  cold  and  damp.  There  had  been  a  window  at  the 
head  of  the  bed,  but  it  was  walled  up,  and  that  at  the  foot 
was  also  closed  to  within  a  few  inches  of  the  top.  The  bed 
was  coarse  and  dirty,  and  on  turning  down  the  ragged  cov- 
ers I  saw  with  horror  a  dark-brown  stain  near  the  pillow 
like  that  of  blood.  For  a  moment  I  hesitated  whether  to 
steal  out  of  the  inn  and  seek  another  lodging,  late  as  it  was ; 
at  last,  overcoming  my  fears,  I  threw  my  clothes  into  a 
heap  and  lay  down,  placing  my  heavy  staff  at  the  head  of 
the  bed.  Persons  passed  up  and  down  the  court-yard  sev- 
eral times,  the  light  of  their  lamps  streaming  through  the 
narrow  aperture  up  against  the  ceiling,  and  I  distinctly  heard 
voices  which  seemed  to  be  near  the  door.  Twice  did  I  sit 
up  in  bed,  breathless,  with  my  hand  on  the  cane,  in  the  most 
intense  anxiety  ;  but  fatigue  finally  overcame  suspicion,  and 
I  sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  I  was  gladly  awakened 
by  daylight.     In  reality,  there  may  have  been  no  cause  for 


LEIPSIC.  147 

my  fears — I  may  have  wronged  the  lonely  innkeepers  by 
them ;  but  certainly  no  place  or  circumstances  ever  seemed 
to  me  more  appropriate  to  a  deed  of  robbery  or  crime.  I 
left  immediately ;  and  when  a  turn  in  the  street  hid  the  ill- 
omened  front  of  the  inn,  I  began  to  breathe  with  my  usual 
freedom. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

NOTES   IN   LEIPSIC  AND   DRESDEN. 

Leipsic,  May  8. 

I  have  now  been  nearly  two  days  in  this  wide-famed 
city ;  and  the  more  I  see  of  it,  the  better  I  like  it.  It  is  a 
pleasant,  friendly  town,  old  enough  to  be  interesting  and 
new  enough  to  be  comfortable.  There  is  much  active 
business-life,  through  which  it  is  fast  increasing  in  size  and 
beauty.  Its  publishing  establishments  are  the  largest  in 
the  world,  and  its  annual  fairs  attended  by  people  from  all 
parts  of  Europe.  This  is  much  for  a  city  to  accomplish 
situated  alone  in  the  middle  of  a  great  plain,  with  no  natural 
charms  of  scenery  or  treasures  of  art  to  attract  strangers. 
The  energy  and  enterprise  of  its  merchants  have  accom- 
plished all  this,  and  it  now  stands  in  importance  among  the 
first  cities  of  Europe. 

The  bad  weather  obliged  me  to  take  the  railroad  at  Hal- 
berstadt  to  keep  the  appointment  with  my  friend  in  this 
city.  I  left  at  six  for  Magdeburg,  and  after  two  hours' 
ride  over  a  dull,  tiresome  plain  rode  along  under  the 
mounds  and  fortifications  by  the  side  of  the  Elbe,  and  en- 
tered the  old  town.  It  was  very  cold,  and  the  streets  were 
muddy ;  so  I  contented  myself  with  looking  at  the  Broad- 
way (tier  breite  Weg),  the  cathedral  and  one  or  two  curious 
old  churches,  and  in  walking  along  the  parapet  leading  to 
the  fortress,  which  has  a  view  of  the  winding  Elbe.     The 


148  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

citadel  was  interesting  from  having  been  the  prison  in  which 
Baron  Trenck  was  confined,  whose  narrative  I  read  years 
ago,  when  quite  a  child. 

We  were  soon  on  the  road  to  Leipsic.  The  way  was  over 
one  great  uninterrupted  plain — a  more  monotonous  country, 
even,  than  Belgium.  Two  of  the  passengers  in  the  car  with 
me  were  much  annoyed  at  being  taken  by  the  railway-agents 
for  Poles.  Their  movements  were  strictly  watched  by  the 
gens  d'arme  at  every  station  we  passed,  and  they  were  not 
even  allowed  to  sit  together.  At  Kothen  a  branch-track 
went  off  to  Berlin.  We  passed  by  Halle  without  being  able 
to  see  anything  of  it  or  its  university,  and  arrived  here  in 
four  hours  after  leaving  Magdeburg. 

On  my  first  walk  around  the  city,  yesterday  morning,  I 
passed  the  Augustus  Platz — a  broad  green  lawn  on  which 
front  the  university  and  several  other  public  buildings.  A 
chain  of  beautiful  promenades  encircles  the  city  on  the  site 
of  its  old  fortifications.  Following  their  course  through 
walks  shaded  by  large  trees  and  bordered  with  flowering 
shrubs,  I  passed  a  small  but  chaste  monument  to  Sebastian 
Bach,  the  composer,  which  was  erected  almost  entirely  at 
the  private  cost  of  Mendelssohn,  and  stands  opposite  the 
building  in  which  Bach  once  directed  the  choirs.  As  I  was 
standing  beside  it  a  glorious  choral  swelled  by  a  hundred 
voices  came  through  the  open  windows  like  a  tribute  to  the 
genius  of  the  great  master. 

Having  found  my  friend,  we  went  together  to  the  Stern 
Warte,  or  observatory,  which  gives  a  fine  view  of  the  country 
around  the  city,  and  in  particular  the  battlefield.  The  cas- 
tellan who  is  stationed  there  is  well  acquainted  with  the 
localities,  and  pointed  out  the  position  of  the  hostile  armies. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  bloody  and  hard-fought  battles  which 
history  records.  The  army  of  Napoleon  stretched  like  a 
semicircle  around  the  southern  and  eastern  sides  of  the  city, 
and  the  plain  beyond  was  occupied  by  the  allies,  whose 
forces  met  together  here.     Schwarzenberg,  with  his  Austri- 


SCHILLER'S  ROOM.  149 

ans,  came  from  Dresden  ;  Blucher,  fram  Halle,  with  the 
emperor  Alexander.  Their  forces  amounted  to  three  hun- 
dred thousand,  while  those  of  Napoleon  ranked  at  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety-two  thousand  men.  It  must  have  been  a 
terrific  scene.  Four  days  raged  the  battle,  and  the  meeting 
of  half  a  million  of  men  in  deadly  conflict  was  accompanied 
by  the  thunder  of  sixteen  hundred  cannon.  The  small 
rivers  which  flow  through  Leipsic  were  swollen  with  blood, 
and  the  vast  plain  was  strewed  with  more  than  fifty  thou- 
sand dead.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  such  slaughter 
while  looking  at  the  quiet  and  tranquil  landscape  below. 
It  seemed  more  like  a  legend  of  past  ages,  when  ignorance 
and  passion  led  men  to  murder  and  destroy,  than  an  event 
which  the  last  half  century  witnessed.  For  the  sake  of  hu- 
manity it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  world  will  never  see  such 
another. 

There  are  some  lovely  walks  around  Leipsic.  We  went 
yesterday  afternoon  with  a  few  friends  to  the  Rosenthal,  a 
beautiful  meadow  bordered  by  forests  of  the  German  oak, 
very  few  of  whose  Druid  trunks  have  been  left  standing. 
There  are  Swiss  cottages  embowered  in  the  foliage  where 
every  afternoon  the  social  citizens  assemble  to  drink  their 
coffee  and  enjoy  a  few  hours'  escape  from  the  noisy  and 
dusty  streets.  One  can  walk  for  miles  along  these  lovely 
paths  by  the  side  of  the  velvet  meadows  or  the  banks  of 
some  shaded  stream.  We  visited  the  little  village  of  Golis, 
a  short  distance  off,  where,  in  the  second  story  of  a  little 
white  house,  hangs  the  sign,  "Schiller's  Room."  Some  of 
the  Leipsic  literati  have  built  a  stone  arch  over  the  entrance, 
with  the  inscription  above:  "Here  dwelt  Schiller  in  1795, 
and  wrote  his  Hymn  to  Joy."  Everywhere  through  Ger- 
many the  remembrances  of  Schiller  are  sacred.  In  every 
city  where  he  lived  they  show  his  dwelling.  They  know 
and  reverence  the  mighty  spirit  who  has  been  among  them. 
The  little  room  where  he  conceived  that  sublime  poem  is 
hallowed  as  if  by  the  presence  of  unseen  spirits. 


150  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

I  was  anxious  to  see  the  spot  where  Poniatowsky  fell. 
We  returned  over  the  plain  to  the  city,  and  passed  in  at 
the  gate  by  which  the  Cossacks  entered,  pursuing  the  flying 
French.  Crossing  the  lower  part,  we  came  to  the  little 
river  Elster,  in  whose  waves  the  gallant  prince  sank.  The 
stone  bridge  by  which  we  crossed  was  blown  up  by  the 
French  to  cut  off  pursuit.  Napoleon  had  given  orders  that 
it  should  not  be  blown  up  till  the  Poles  had  all  passed  over, 
as  the  river,  though  narrow,  is  quite  deep  and  the  banks 
are  steep.  Nevertheless,  his  officers  did  not  wait,  and  the 
Poles,  thus  exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  were  obliged 
to  plunge  into  the  stream  to  join  the  French  army,  which 
had  begun  the  retreat  toward  Frankfort.  Poniatowsky, 
severely  wounded,  made  his  way  through  a  garden  near, 
and  escaped  on  horseback  into  the  water.  He  became  en- 
tangled among  the  fugitives,  and  sank.  By  walking  a  lit- 
tle distance  along  the  road  toward  Frankfort  we  could  see 
the  spot  where  his  body  was  taken  out  of  the  river ;  it  is 
now  marked  by  a  square  stone  covered  with  the  names  of 
his  countrymen  who  have  visited  it.  We  returned  through 
the  narrow  arched  way  by  which  Napoleon  fled  when  the 
battle  was  lost. 

Another  interesting  place  in  Leipsic  is  Auerbach's  Cel- 
lar, which,  it  is  said,  contains  an  old  manuscript  history  of 
Faust  from  which  Goethe  derived  the  first  idea  of  his  poem. 
He  used  to  frequent  this  cellar,  and  one  of  his  scenes  in 
Faust  is  laid  in  it.  We  looked  down  the  arched  passage  ; 
not  wishing  to  purchase  any  wine,  we  could  find  no  pre- 
tence for  entering.  The  streets  are  full  of  book-stores,  and 
one-half  the  business  of  the  inhabitants  appears  to  consist 
in  printing,  paper-making  and  binding.  The  publishers 
have  a  handsome  exchange  of  their  own,  and  during  the 
fairs  the  amount  of  business  transacted  is  enormous.  The 
establishment  of  Brockhaus  is  contained  in  an  immense 
building,  adjoining  which  stands  his  dwelling,  in  the  midst 
of  magnificent  gardens.     That  of  Tauchnitz   is   not   less 


DRESDEN  151 

celebrated  ;  his  editions  of  the  classics  in  particular  are  the 
best  that  have  ever  been  made,  and  he  has  lately  com- 
menced publishing  a  number  of  English  works  in  a  cheap 
form.  Otto  Wigand,  who  has  also  a  large  establishment, 
has  begun  to  issue  translations  of  American  works ;  he  has 
already  published  Prescott  and  Bancroft,  and,  I  believe,  in- 
tends giving  out  shortly  translations  from  some  of  our  poets 
and  novelists.  I  became  acquainted  at  the  museum  with  a 
young  German  author  who  had  been  some  time  in  America 
and  was  well  versed  in  our  literature.  He  is  now  engaged 
in  translating  American  works,  one  of  which — Hoffman's 
Wild  Scenes  of  the  Forest  and  Prairie — will  soon  appear. 
In  no  place  in  Germany  have  I  found  more  knowledge  of 
our  country,  her  men  aud  her  institutions  than  in  Leipsic, 
and  as  yet  I  have  seen  few  that  would  be  preferable  as  a 
place  of  residence.  Its  attractions  lie,  not  in  its  scenery, 
but  in  the  social  and  intellectual  character  of  its  inhabit- 
ants. 

May  11. 

At  last  in  this  "  Florence  of  the  Elbe,"  as  the  Saxons 
have  christened  it !  Exclusive  of  its  glorious  galleries  of 
art,  which  are  scarcely  surpassed  by  any  in  Europe,  Dres- 
den charms  one  by  the  natural  beauty  of  its  environs.  It 
stands  in  a  curve  of  the  Elbe,  in  the  midst  of  green  mead- 
ows, gardens  and  fine  old  woods,  with  the  hills  of  Saxony 
sweeping  around  like  an  amphitheatre  and  the  craggy  peaks 
of  the  highlands  looking  at  it  from  afar.  The  domes  and 
spires  at  a  distance  give  it  a  rich  Italian  look,  which  is 
heightened  by  the  white  villas  embowered  in  trees  gleaming 
on  the  hills  around.  In  the  streets  there  is  no  bustle  of  busi- 
ness— nothing  of  the  din  and  confusion  of  traffic  which 
mark  most  cities  ;  it  seems  like  a  place  for  study  and 
quiet  enjoyment. 

The  railroad  brought  us  in  three  hours  from  Leipsic  over 
the  eighty  miles  of  plain  that  intervene.  We  came  from 
the  station  through  the  Neustadt,  passing  the  Japanese  pal- 


152  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ace  and  the  equestrian  statue  of  Augustus  the  Strong.  The 
magnificent  bridge  over  the  Elbe  was  so  much  injured  by 
the  late  inundation  as  to  be  impassable ;  we  were  obliged  to 
go  some  distance  up  the  river-bank  and  cross  on  a  bridge 
of  boats.  Next  morning  my  first  search  was  for  the  picture- 
gallery.  We  set  off  at  random,  and  after  passing  the  church 
of  Our  Lady,  with  its  lofty  dome  of  solid  stone,  which  with- 
stood the  heaviest  bombs  during  the  war  with  Frederick 
the  Great,  came  to  an  open  square  one  side  of  which  was 
occupied  by  an  old  brown,  red-roofed  building  which  I  at 
once  recognized  from  pictures  as  the  object  of  our  search. 
I  have  just  taken  a  last  look  at  the  gallery  this  morning, 
and  left  it  with  real  regret ;  for  during  the  two  visits  Ra- 
phael's heavenly  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  had  so 
grown  into  my  love  and  admiration  that  it  was  painful  to  think 
I  should  never  see  it  again.  There  are  many  more  which 
clung  so  strongly  to  my  imagination,  gratifying  in  the 
highest  degree  the  love  for  the  Beautiful,  that  I  left  them 
with  sadness  and  the  thought  that  I  would  now  only  have 
the  memory.  I  can  see  the  inspired  eye  and  godlike  brow 
of  the  Jesus-child  as  if  I  were  still  standing  before  the  pic- 
ture, and  the  sweet,  holy  countenance  of  the  Madonna  still 
looks  upon  me.  Yet,  though  this  picture  is  a  miracle  of 
art,  the  first  glance  filled  me  with  disappointment.  It  has 
somewhat  faded  during  the  three  hundred  years  that  have 
rolled  away  since  the  hand  of  Raphael  worked  on  the  can- 
vas, and  the  glass  with  which  it  is  covered  for  better  pres- 
ervation injures  the  effect.  After  I  had  gazed  on  it  a  while, 
every  thought  of  this  vanished.  The  figure  of  the  Virgin 
seemed  to  soar  in  the  air,  and  it  was  difficult  to  think  the 
clouds  were  not  in  motion.  An  aerial  lightness  clothes  her 
form,  and  it  is  perfectly  natural  for  such  a  figure  to  stand 
among  the  clouds.  Two  divine  cherubs  look  up  from  below, 
and  in  her  arms  sits  the  sacred  Child.  Those  two  faces  beam 
from  the  picture  like  those  of  angels.  The  mild,  prophetic 
eye  and  lofty  brow  of  the  young  Jesus  chains  one  like  a 


HAGAE  AND  ISIIMAEL.  153 

spell.  There  is  something  more  tlian  mortal  in  its  expres- 
sion—something in  the  infant  face  which  indicates  a  power 
mightier  than  the  proudest  manhood.  There  is  no  glory- 
around  the  head,  but  the  spirit  which  shines  from  those 
features  marks  his  divinity.  In  the  sweet  face  of  the  moth- 
er there  speaks  a  sorrowful  foreboding  mixed  with  its  tender- 
ness, as  if  she  knew  the  world  into  which  the  Saviour  was 
born  and  foresaw  the  path  in  which  he  was  to  tread.  It  is 
a  picture  which  one  can  scarce  look  upon  without  tears. 

There  are  in  the  same  room  six  pictures  by  Correggio 
which  are  said  to  be  among  his  best  works — one  of  them, 
his  celebrated  Magdalen.  There  is  also  Correggio's  "  Holy 
Night,"  or  the  Virgin  with  the  shepherds  in  the  manger,  in 
which  all  the  light  comes  from  the  body  of  the  Child.  The 
surprise  of  the  shepherds  is  most  beautifully  expressed.  In 
one  of  the  halls  there  is  a  picture  by  Van  der  Werff  in 
which  the  touching  story  of  Hagar  is  told  more  feelingly 
than  words  could  do  it.  The  young  Ishmael  is  represented 
full  of  grief  at  parting  with  Isaac,  who,  in  childish  uncon- 
sciousness of  what  has  taken  place,  draws  in  sport  the  cor- 
ner of  his  mother's  mantle  around  him  and  smiles  at  the 
tears  of  his  lost  playmate.  Nothing  can  come  nearer  real 
flesh  and  blood  than  the  two  portraits  of  Raphael  Mengs, 
painted  by  himself  when  quite  young.  You  almost  think 
the  artist  has  in  sport  crept  behind  the  frame  and  wishes  to 
make  you  believe  he  is  a  picture.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  speak  of  half  the  gems  of  art  contained  in  this  unrivalled 
collection.  There  are  twelve  large  halls,  containing  in  all 
nearly  two  thousand  pictures. 

The  plain  south  of  Dresden  was  the  scene  of  the  hard- 
fought  battle  between  Napoleon  and  the  allied  armies  in 
1813.  On  the  heights  above  the  little  village  of  Racknitz, 
Moreau  was  shot  on  the  second  day  of  the  battle.  We  took 
a  footpath  through  the  meadows,  shaded  by  cherry  trees  in 
bloom,  and  reached  the  spot  after  an  hour's  walk.  The 
monument  is  simple — a  square  block  of  granite  surmount- 


154  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ed  by  a  helmet  and  sword,  with  the  inscription,  "The  hero 
Moreau  fell  here  by  the  side  of  Alexander,  August  17, 
1813."  I  gathered  as  a  memorial  a  few  leaves  of  the  oak 
which  shades  it. 

By  applying  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time,  we  ob- 
tained admission  to  the  royal  library.  It  contains  three 
hundred  thousand  volumes — among  them,  the  most  com- 
plete collection  of  historical  works  in  existence.  Each  hall 
is  devoted  to  a  history  of  a  separate  country,  and  one  large 
room  is  filled  with  that  of  Saxony  alone.  There  is  a  large 
number  of  rare  and  curious  manuscripts,  among  which  are 
old  Greek  works  of  the  seventh  and  eighth  centuries,  a 
Koran  which  once  belonged  to  the  sultan  Bajazet,  the  hand- 
writing of  Luther  and  Melanchthon,  a  manuscript  volume 
with  pen-and-ink  sketches  by  Albert  Durer,  and  the  earliest 
works  after  the  invention  of  printing.  Among  these  latter 
was  a  book  published  by  Faust  and  Schaeffer,  at  Mayence, 
in  1457.  There  were  also  Mexican  manuscripts  written  on 
the  aloe  leaf,  and  many  illuminated  monkish  volumes  of 
the  Middle  Ages. 

We  were  fortunate  in  seeing  the  Grune  Gewolbe,  or  Green 
Gallery,  a  collection  of  jewels  and  costly  articles  unsurpassed 
in  Europe.  The  entrance  is  only  granted  to  six  persons  at 
a  time,  who  pay  a  fee  of  two  thalers.  The  customary  way 
is  to  employ  a  lohnbedienter,  who  goes  around  from  one  hotel 
to  another  till  he  has  collected  the  number,  when  he  brings 
them  together  and  conducts  them  to  the  person  in  the  pal- 
ace who  has  charge  of  the  treasures.  As  our  visit  happened 
to  be  during  the  Pentecost  holidays,  when  everybody  in 
Dresden  goes  to  the  mountains,  there  was  some  difficulty  in 
effecting  this  ;  but  after  two  mornings  spent  in  hunting  up 
curious  travellers,  the  servant  finally  conducted  us  in  tri- 
umph to  the  palace.  The  first  hall  into  which  we  were 
ushered  contained  works  in  bronze.  They  were  all  small, 
and  chosen  with  regard  to  their  artistical  value.  Some  by 
John  of  Bologna  were  exceedingly  fine,  as  was  also  a  group 


THE  "SPANISH  DWARF."  155 

in  iron  cut  out  of  a  single  block,  perhaps  the  only  successful 
attempt  in  this  branch.  The  next  room  contained  statues, 
and  vases  covered  with  reliefs  in  ivory.  The  most  remarkable 
work  was  the  fall  of  Lucifer  and  his  angels,  containing  ninety- 
two  figures  in  all,  carved  out  of  a  single  piece  of  ivory  six- 
teen inches  high.  It  was  the  work  of  an  Italian  monk,  and 
cost  him  many  years  of  hard  labor.  There  were  two  tables 
of  mosaic-work  that  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  the  fabled 
halls  of  the  Eastern  genii,  so  much  did  they  exceed  my  for- 
mer ideas  of  human  skill.  The  tops  were  of  jasper,  and 
each  had  a  border  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  which  every  color 
was  represented  by  some  precious  stone,  all  with  the  utmost 
delicacy  and  truth  to  nature.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive 
the  splendid  effect  it  produced.  Besides  some  fine  pictures 
on  gold  by  Raphael  Mengs,  there  was  a  Madonna,  the  lar- 
gest specimen  of  enamel-painting  in  existence. 

However  costly  the  contents  of  these  halls,  they  were  only 
an  introduction  to  those  which  followed.  Each  one  ex- 
ceeded the  other  in  splendor  and  costliness.  The  walls  were 
covered  to  the  ceiling  with  rows  of  goblets,  vases,  etc.,  of 
polished  jasper,  agate,  and  lapis  lazuli.  Splendid  mosaic 
tables  stood  around  with  caskets  of  the  most  exquisite  silver 
and  gold  work  upon  them,  and  vessels  of  solid  silver,  some 
of  them  weighing  six  hundred  pounds,  were  placed  at  the 
foot  of  the  columns.  We  were  shown  two  goblets,  each 
prized  at  six  thousand  thalers,  made  of  gold  and  precious 
stones ;  also  the  great  pearl  called  the  "  Spanish  Dwarf," 
nearly  as  large  as  a  pullet's  egg,  globes  and  vases  cut  en- 
tirely out  of  the  mountain-crystal,  magnificent  Nuremberg 
watches  and  clocks,  and  a  great  number  of  figures  made  in- 
geniously of  rough  pearls  and  diamonds.  The  officer  showed 
us  a  hen's  egg  of  silver.  There  was  apparently  nothing  re- 
markable about  it,  but  by  unscrewing  it  came  apart  and 
disclosed  the  yelk  of  gold.  This  again  opened,  and  a  golden 
chicken  was  seen  ;  by  touching  a  spring  a  little  diamond 
crown  came  from  the  inside,  and,  the  crown  being  again 


156  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

taken  apart,  out  dropped  a  valuable  diamond  ring.  The 
seventh  hall  contains  the  coronation-robes  of  Augustus  II. 
of  Poland  and  many  costly  specimens  of  carving  in  wood. 
A  cherry-stone  is  shown  in  a  glass  case  which  has  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  faces,  all  perfectly  finished,  carved 
upon  it. 

The  next  room  we  entered  sent  back  a  glare  of  splendor 
that  perfectly  dazzled  us ;  it  was  all  gold,  diamond,  ruby,  and 
sapphire.  Every  case  sent  out  such  a  glow  and  glitter  that 
it  seemed  like  a  cage  of  imprisoned  lightnings.  Wherever 
the  eye  turned  it  was  met  by  a  blaze  of  broken  rainbows. 
They  were  there  by  hundreds,  and  every  gem  was  a  for- 
tune— whole  cases  of  swords  with  hilts  and  scabbards  of 
solid  gold  studded  with  gems,  the  great  two-handed  corona- 
tion sword  of  the  German  emperors,  daggers  covered  with 
brilliants  and  rubies,  diamond  buttons,  chains,  and  orders, 
necklaces  and  bracelets  of  pearl  and  emerald,  and  the  order 
of  the  Golden  Fleece  made  in  gems  of  every  kind.  We 
were  also  shown  the  largest  known  onyx,  nearly  seven  inches 
long  and  four  inches  broad.  One  of  the  most  remarkable 
works  is  the  throne  and  court  of  Aurungzebe,  the  Indian 
king,  by  Dinglinger,  a  celebrated  goldsmith  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. It  contains  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  figures,  all 
of  enamelled  gold  and  each  one  most  perfectly  and  elabo- 
rately finished.  It  was  purchased  by  Prince  Augustus  for 
fifty-eight  thousand  thalers,*  which  was  not  a  high  sum, 
considering  that  the  making  of  it  occupied  Dinglinger  and 
thirteen  workmen  for  seven  years. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  estimate  the  value  of  the  treas- 
ures these  halls  contain.  That  of  the  gold  and  jewels  alone 
must  be  many  millions  of  dollars,  and  the  amount  of  labor 
expended  on  these  toys  of  royalty  is  incredible.  As  monu- 
ments of  patient  and  untiring  toil  they  are  interesting,  but 
it  is  sad  to  think  how  much  labor  and  skill  and  energy 
have  been  wasted  in  producing  things  which  are  useless  to 
*  A  Prussian  or  Saxon  thaler  is  about  seventy  cents. 


THE  SAXON  SWITZERLAND.  157 

the  world  and  only  of  secondary  importance  as  works  of 
art.  Perhaps,  however,  if  men  could  be  diverted  by  such 
playthings  from  more  dangerous  games,  it  would  be  all 
the  better. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

RAMBLES   IN   THE  SAXON   SWITZERLAND. 

After  four  days'  sojourn  in  Dresden,  we  shouldered  our 
knapsacks,  not  to  be  laid  down  again  till  we  reached  Prague. 
AVe  were  elated  with  the  prospect  of  getting  among  the 
hills  again,  and  we  heeded  not  the  frequent  showers  which 
had  dampened  the  enjoyment  of  the  Pentecost  holidays 
to  the  good  citizens  of  Dresden,  and  might  spoil  our  own. 
So  we  trudged  gayly  along  the  road  to  Pillnitz  and  waved 
an  adieu  to  the  domes  behind  us  as  the  forest  shut  them  out 
from  view. 

After  two  hours'  walk  the  road  led  down  to  the  Elbe, 
where  we  crossed  in  a  ferry-boat  to  Pillnitz,  the  seat  of 
a  handsome  palace  and  gardens  belonging  to  the  king  of 
Saxony.  He  happened  to  be  there  at  the  time,  on  an 
afternoon  excursion  from  Dresden ;  as  we  had  seen  him 
before  in  the  latter  place,  we  passed  directly  on,  only 
pausing  to  admire  the  flower-beds  in  the  palace-court. 
The  king  is  a  tall,  benevolent-looking  man,  and  is  appar- 
ently much  liked  by  his  people. 

As  far  as  I  have  yet  seen,  Saxony  is  a  prosperous  and 
happy  country.  The  people  are  noted  all  over  Germany 
for  their  honest  social  character,  which  is  written  on  their 
cheerful,  open  countenances.  On  our  entrance  into  the 
Saxon  Switzerland  at  Pillnitz  we  were  delighted  with  the 
neatness  and  homelike  appearance  of  everything.  Every- 
body greeted  us  ;  if  we  asked  for  information,  they  gave 


158  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

it  cheerfully.  The  villages  were  all  pleasant  and  clean 
and  the  meadows  fresh  and  blooming.  I  felt  half  tempted 
to  say,  in  the  words  of  an  old  ballad  which  I  believe  Long- 
fellow has  translated : 

"  The  fairest  kingdom  on  this  earth, 
It  is  the  Saxon  land." 

Going  along  the  left  bank  of  the  Elbe,  we  passed  over 
meadows  purple  with  the  tricolored  violet  which  we  have 
at  home  in  gardens,  and  every  little  bank  was  bright  with 
cowslips.  At  length  the  path  led  down  into  a  cleft  or  ra- 
vine filled  with  trees  whose  tops  were  on  a  level  with  the 
country  around.  This  is  a  peculiar  feature  of  Saxon  scen- 
ery. The  country  contains  many  of  these  clefts,  some  of 
which  are  several  hundred  feet  deep,  having  walls  of  per- 
pendicular rock  in  whose  crevices  the  mountain-pine  roots 
itself  and  grows  to  a  tolerable  height  without  any  apparent 
soil  to  keep  it  alive.  We  descended  by  a  footpath  into  this 
ravine,  called  the  Liebethaler  Grund.  It  is  wider  than 
many  of  the  others,  having  room  enough  for  a  considerable 
stream  and  several  mills.  The  sides  are  of  sandstone  rock 
quite  perpendicular.  As  we  proceeded  it  grew  narrower 
and  deeper,  while  the  trees  covering  its  sides  and  edges 
nearly  shut  out  the  sky.  An  hour's  walk  brought  us  to 
the  end,  where  we  ascended  gradually  to  the  upper  level 

again. 

After  passing  the  night  at  the  little  village  of  Uttewalde, 
a  short  distance  farther,  we  set  out  early  in  the  morning  for 
the  Bastei,  a  lofty  precipice  on  the  Elbe.  The  way  led  us 
directly  through  the  Uttewalder  Grund,  the  most  remark- 
able of  all  these  chasms.  We  went  down  by  steps  into  its 
depths,  which  in  the  early  morning  were  very  cold.  Water 
dripped  from  the  rocks,  which,  but  a  few  feet  apart,  rose  far 
above  us,  and  a  little  rill  made  its  way  along  the  bottom, 
into  which  the  sun  has  never  shone.  Heavy  masses  of  rock 
which  had  tumbled  down  from  the  sides  lay  in  the  way,  and 


SAXON  SCENERY.  159 

tall  pine  trees  sprung  from  every  cleft.  In  one  place  the 
defile  is  only  four  feet  wide,  and  a  large  mass  of  rock  fallen 
from  above  has  lodged  near  the  bottom,  making  an  arch 
across,  under  which  the  traveller  has  to  creep.  After  going 
under  two  or  three  arches  of  this  kind  the  defile  widened, 
and  an  arrow  cut  upon  a  rock  directed  us  to  a  side-path 
which  branched  oft"  from  this  into  a  mountain.  Here  the 
stone  masses  immediately  assumed  another  form.  They 
projected  out  like  shelves,  sometimes  as  much  as  twenty  feet 
from  the  straight  side,  and  hung  over  the  way,  looking  as 
if  they  might  break  off"  every  moment.  I  felt  glad  when 
we  had  passed  under  them.  Then,  as  we  ascended  higher, 
we  saw  pillars  of  rock  separated  entirely  from  the  side  and 
rising  a  hundred  feet  in  height,  with  trees  growing  on  their 
summits.  They  stood  there  gray  and  time-worn,  like  the 
ruins  of  a  Titan  temple. 

The  path  finally  led  us  out  into  the  forest  and  through 
the  clustering  pine  trees  to  the  summit  of  the  Bastei.  An 
inn  has  been  erected  in  the  woods  and  an  iron  balustrade 
placed  around  the  rock.  Protected  by  this,  we  advanced 
to  the  end  of  the  precipice  and  looked  down  to  the  swift 
Elbe,  more  than  seven  hundred  feet  below.  Opposite 
through  the  blue  mists  of  morning  rose  Konigstein,  crowned 
with  an  impregnable  fortress,  and  the  crags  of  Lilienstein, 
with  a  fine  forest  around  their  base,  frowned  from  the  left 
bank.  On  both  sides  were  horrible  precipices  of  gray  rock 
with  rugged  trees  hanging  from  the  crevices.  A  hill  rising 
up  from  one  side  of  the  Bastei  terminates  suddenly  a  short 
distance  from  it  in  an  abrupt  precipice.  In  the  intervening 
space  stand  three  or  four  of  these  rock-columns,  several 
hundred  feet  high,  with  their  tops  nearly  on  a  level  with 
the  Bastei.  A  wooden  bridge  has  been  made  across  from 
one  to  the  other,  over  which  the  traveller  passes,  looking  on 
the  trees  and  rocks  far  below  him,  to  the  mountain,  where 
a  steep  zigzag  path  takes  him  to  the  Elbe  below. 

We  crossed  the  Elbe — for  the  fourth  time — at  the  foot 


160  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  the  Bastei,  and  walked  along  its  right  bank  toward  K6- 
nigstein.  The  injury  caused  by  the  inundation  was  every- 
where apparent.  The  receding  flood  had  left  a  deposit 
of  sand,  in  many  places  several  feet  deep,  on  the  rich 
meadows ;  so  that  the  labor  of  years  will  be  requisite  to  re- 
move it  and  restore  the  land  to  an  arable  condition.  Even 
the  farmhouses  on  the  hillside,  some  distance  from  the  river, 
had  been  reached,  and  the  long  grass  hung  in  the  highest 
branches  of  the  fruit  trees.  The  people  were  at  work  try- 
ing to  repair  their  injuries,  but  it  will  fall  heavily  upon  the 
poorer  classes. 

The  mountain  of  Konigstein  is  twelve  hundred  feet  high. 
A  precipice  varying  from  one  to  three  hundred  feet  in 
height  runs  entirely  around  the  summit,  which  is  flat  and  a 
mile  and  a  half  in  circumference.  This  has  been  turned 
into  a  fortress  whose  natural  advantages  make  it  entirely 
impregnable.  During  the  Thirty  Years'  War  and  the  late 
war  with  Napoleon  it  was  the  only  place  in  Saxony  unoc- 
cupied by  the  enemy.  Hence  is  it  used  as  a  depository  for 
the  archives  and  royal  treasures  in  times  of  clanger.  By 
giving  up  our  passports  at  the  door  we  received  permission 
to  enter ;  the  officer  called  a  guide  to  take  us  around  the 
battlements.  There  is  quite  a  little  village  on  the  summit, 
with  gardens,  fields  and  a  wood  of  considerable  size.  The 
only  entrance  is  by  a  road  cut  through  the  rock,  which  is 
strongly  guarded.  A  well  seven  hundred  feet  deep  supplies 
the  fortress  with  water,  and  there  are  storehouses  sufficient 
to  hold  supplies  for  many  years.  The  view  from  the  ram- 
parts is  glorious :  it  takes  in  the  whole  of  the  Saxon  High- 
lands as  far  as  the  lofty  Schneeberg,  in  Bohemia.  On  the  other 
side  the  eye  follows  the  windings  of  the  Elbe  as  far  as  the 
spires  of  Dresden.  Lilienstein,  a  mountain  of  exactly  sim- 
ilar formation,  but  somewhat  higher,  stands  directly  opposite. 
On  walking  around,  the  guide  pointed  out  a  little  square 
tower  standing  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  with  a  ledge 
about  two  feet  wide  running  around  it  just  below  the  win- 


AN  OUTBURST  OF  PATRIOTISM.  lbT 

dows.  He  said  during  the  reign  of  Augustus  the  Strong 
a  baron  attached  to  his  court  rose  in  his  sleep  after  a  night 
of  revelry,  and,  stepping  out  the  window,  stretched  himself 
at  full  length  along  the  ledge.  A  guard  fortunately  ob- 
served his  situation  and  informed  Augustus  of  it,  who  had 
him  bound  and  secured  with  cords  and  then  awakened  by 
music.  It  was  a  good  lesson,  and  one  which,  no  doubt, 
sobered  him  for  the  future. 

Passing  through  the  little  city  of  Konigstein,  we  walked 
on  to  Schandau,  the  capital  of  the  Saxon  Switzerland,  situ- 
ated on  the  left  bank.  It  had  sustained  great  damage 
from  the  flood,  the  whole  place  having  been  literally  under 
water.  Here  we  turned  up  a  narrow  valley  which  led  to 
the  Kuhstall,  some  eight  miles  distant.  The  sides,  as  usual, 
were  of  steej)  gray  rock,  but  wide  enough  apart  to  give 
room  to  some  lovely  meadows,  with  here  and  there  a  rustic 
cottage.  The  mountain-maidens  in  their  bright-red  dresses, 
with  a  fanciful  scarf  bound  around  the  head,  made  a  ro- 
mantic addition  to  the  scene.  There  were  some  quiet  se- 
cluded nooks  where  the  light  of  day  stole  in  dimly  through 
the  thick  foliage  above  and  the  wild  stream  rushed  less 
boisterously  over  the  rocks.  We  sat  down  to  rest  in  one  of 
these  cool  retreats  and  made  the  glen  ring  with  a  cheer  for 
America.  The  echoes  repeated  the  name  as  if  they  had 
heard  it  for  the  first  time,  and  I  gave  them  a  strict  injunc- 
tion to  give  it  back  to  the  next  countryman  who  should 
pass  by. 

As  we  advanced  farther  into  the  hills  the  way  became 
darker  and  wilder.  We  heard  the  sound  of  falling  water 
in  a  little  dell  on  one  side,  and,  going  nearer,  saw  a  pic- 
turesque fall  of  about  fifteen  feet.  Great  masses  of  black 
rock  were  piled  together,  over  which  the  mountain-stream 
fell  in  a  snowy  sheet.  The  pines  above  and  around  grew 
so  thick  and  close  that  not  a  sunbeam  could  enter,  and  a 
kind  of  mysterious  twilight  pervaded  the  spot.  In  Greece 
it  would  have  been  chosen  for  an  oracle.  I  have  seen 
11 


162  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

somewhere  a  picture  of  the  Spirit  of  Poetry  sitting  beside 
just  such  a  cataract,  and  truly  the  nymph  could  choose  no 
more  appropriate  dwelling.  But  alas  for  sentiment! 
While  we  were  admiring  its  picturesque  beauty  we  did  not 
notice  a  man  who  came  from  a  hut  near  by  and  went  up 
behind  the  rocks.  All  at  once  there  was  a  roar  of  water, 
and  a  real  torrent  came  pouring  down.  I  looked  up,  and, 
lo !  there  he  stood  with  a  gate  in  his  hand  which  had  held 
the  water  imprisoned,  looking  down  at  us  to  observe  the 
effect.  I  motioned  him  to  shut  it  up  again,  and  he  ran 
down  to  us  lest  he  should  lose  his  fee  for  the  "  sight." 

Our  road  now  left  the  valley  and  ascended  through  a 
forest  to  the  Kuhstall,  which  we  came  upon  at  once.  It  is  a 
remarkable  natural  arch  through  a  rocky  wall  or  rampart 
one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  thick.  Going  through,  we  came 
at  the  other  end  to  the  edge  of  a  very  deep  precipice,  while 
the  rock  towered  precipitously  far  above.  Below  lay  a 
deep  circular  valley  two  miles  in  diameter  and  surrounded 
on  every  side  by  ranges  of  crags  such  as  we  saw  on  the 
Bastei.  It  was  entirely  covered  with  a  pine-forest,  and 
there  only  appeared  to  be  two  or  three  narrow  defiles 
which  gave  it  a  communication  with  the  world.  The  top 
of  the  Kuhstall  can  be  reached  by  a  path  which  runs  up 
through  a  split  in  the  rock  directly  to  the  summit.  It  is 
just  wide  enough  for  one  person  to  squeeze  himself  through  ; 
pieces  of  wood  have  been  fastened  in  as  steps,  and  the 
rocks  in  many  places  close  completely  above.  The  place 
derives  its  name  from  having  been  used  by  the  mountain- 
eers as  a  hiding-place  for  their  cattle  in  time  of  war. 

Next  morning  we  descended  by  another  crevice  in  the 
rock  to  the  lonely  valley,  which  we  crossed,  and  climbed 
the  Little  Winterberg,  on  the  opposite  side.  There  is  a 
wide  and  rugged  view  from  a  little  tower  on  a  precipitous 
rock  near  the  summit,  erected  to  commemorate  the  escape 
of  Prince  Augustus  of  Saxony,  who,  being  pursued  by  a 
mad  stag,  rescued  himself  on  the  very  brink  by  a  lucky 


THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SAXONY.  163 

blow.  Among  the  many  wild  valleys  that  lay  between  the 
hills,  we  saw  scarcely  one  without  the  peculiar  rocky  for- 
mation which  gives  to  Saxon  scenery  its  most  interesting 
character.  They  resemble  the  remains  of  some  mighty 
work  of  art  rather  than  one  of  the  thousand  varied  forms 
in  which  Nature  delights  to  clothe  herself. 

The  Great  Winterberg,  which  is  reached  by  another  hour's 
walk  along  an  elevated  ridge,  is  the  highest  of  the  mountains, 
celebrated  for  the  grand  view  from  its  summit.  We  found 
the  handsome  Swiss  hotel  recently  built  there  full  of  tour- 
ists who  had  come  to  enjoy  the  scene,  but  the  morning 
clouds  hid  everything.  We  ascended  the  tower,  and,  look- 
ing between  them  as  they  rolled  by,  caught  glimpses  of  the 
broad  landscape  below.  The  Giant's  Mountains,  in  Silesia, 
were  hidden  by  the  mist,  but  sometimes,  when  the  wind 
freshened,  we  could  see  beyond  the  Elbe  into  Bohemian 
Switzerland,  where  the  long  Schneeberg  rose  conspicuous 
above  the  smaller  mountains.  Leaving  the  other  travellers 
to  wait  at  their  leisure  for  clearer  weather,  we  set  off  for  the 
Prebischthor  in  company  with  two  or  three  students  from 
the  polytechnic  school  in  Dresden.  An  hour's  walk  over 
high  hills  whose  forest-clothing  had  been  swept  off  by  fire  a 
few  years  before  brought  us  to  it. 

The  Prebischthor  is  a  natural  arch,  ninety  feet  high,  in  a 
wall  of  rock  which  projects  at  right  angles  from  the  pre- 
cipitous side  of  the  mountain.  A  narrow  path  leads  over 
the  top  of  the  arch  to  the  end  of  the  rock,  where,  protected 
by  a  railing,  the  traveller  seems  to  hang  in  the  air.  The 
valley  is  far  below  him,  mountains  rise  up  on  either  side, 
and  only  the  narrow  bridge  connects  him  with  the  earth. 
We  descended  by  a  wooden  staircase  to  the  bottom  of  the 
arch,  near  which  a  rustic  inn  is  built  against  the  rock,  and 
thence  into  the  valley  below,  which  we  followed  through 
rude  and  lonely  scenery  to  Hirnischkretschen  (!),  on  the 
Elbe. 

Crossing  the  river  again — for  the  sixth,  and  last,  time — ■ 


164  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

we  followed  the  right  bank  to  Neidergrund,  the  first  Aus- 
trian village.  Here  our  passports  were  vised  for  Prague, 
and  we  were  allowed  to  proceed  without  any  examination 
of  baggage.  I  noticed  a  manifest  change  in  our  fellow- 
travellers  the  moment  we  crossed  the  border.  They  appear- 
ed anxious  and  careful.  If  we  happened  to  speak  of  the 
state  of  the  country,  they  always  looked  around  to  see  if 
anybody  was  near,  and  if  we  even  passed  a  workman  on  the 
road  quickly  changed  to  some  other  subject.  They  spoke 
much  of  the  jealous  strictness  of  the  government,  and,  from 
what  I  heard  from  Austrians  themselves,  there  may  have 
been  ground  for  their  cautiousness. 

We  walked  seven  or  eight  miles  along  the  bank  of  the 
Elbe  to  Tetschen,  there  left  our  companions  and  took  the 
road  to  Teplitz.  The  scenery  was  very  picturesque  ;  it  must 
be  delightful  to  float  down  the  swift  current  in  a  boat,  as 
we  saw  several  merry  companies  do.  The  river  is  just  small 
enough  and  the  banks  near  enough  together  to  render  such 
a  mode  of  travelling  delightful,  and  the  strength  of  the  cur- 
rent would  carry  one  to  Dresden  in  a  day. 

I  was  pleasantly  disappointed  on  entering  Bohemia.  In- 
stead of  a  dull,  uninteresting  country,  as  I  expected,  it  is  a 
land  full  of  the  most  lovely  scenery.  There  is  everything 
which  can  gratify  the  eye — high  blue  mountains,  valleys  of 
the  sweetest  pastoral  look  and  romantic  old  ruins.  The  very 
name  of  Bohemia  is  associated  with  wild  and  wonderful 
legends  of  the  rude  barbaric  ages.  Even  the  chivalric  tales 
of  the  feudal  times  of  Germany  grow  tame  beside  these 
earlier  and  darker  histories.  The  fallen  fortresses  of  the 
Rhine  or  the  robber-castles  of  the  Odenwald  had  not  for 
me  so  exciting  an  interest  as  the  shapeless  ruins  cumbering 
these  lonely  mountains.  The  civilized  Saxon  race  was  left 
behind ;  I  saw  around  me  the  features  and  heard  the  lan- 
guage of  one  of  those  rude  Sclavonic  tribes  whose  original 
home  was  on  the  vast  steppes  of  Central  Asia.  I  have 
rarely  enjoyed  travelling  more  than  our  first  two  days'  jour- 


KULM  AND  TEPLITZ.  165 

ney  toward  Prague.  The  range  of  the  Erzgebirge  ran  along 
on  our  right ;  the  snow  still  lay  in  patches  upon  it,  but  the 
valleys  between,  with  their  little  clusters  of  white  cottages, 
were  green  and  beautiful.  About  six  miles  before  reaching 
Teplitz  we  passed  Kulm,  the  great  battlefield  which  in  a 
measure  decided  the  fate  of  Napoleon.  He  sent  Van- 
damme  with  forty  thousand  men  to  attack  the  allies  before 
they  could  unite  their  forces,  and  thus  effect  their  complete 
destruction.  Only  the  almost  despairing  bravery  of  the 
Russian  guards  under  Ostermann,  who  held  him  in  check 
till  the  allied  troops  united,  prevented  Napoleon's  design. 
At  the  junction  of  the  roads,  where  the  fighting  was  hottest, 
the  Austrians  have  erected  a  monument  to  one  of  their  gen- 
erals. Not  far  from  it  is  that  of  Prussia,  simple  and  taste- 
ful. A  woody  hill  near,  with  the  little  village  of  Kulm  at 
its  foot,  was  the  station  occupied  by  Vandamme  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  battle.  There  is  now  a  beautiful  chapel 
on  its  summit  which  can  be  seen  far  and  wide.  A  little 
distance  farther  the  emperor  of  Russia  has  erected  a  third 
monument,  to  the  memory  of  the  Russians  who  fell.  Four 
lions  rest  on  the  base  of  the  pedestal,  and  on  the  top  of  the 
shaft,  forty-five  feet  high,  Victory  is  represented  as  engrav- 
ing the  date..  "Aug.  30,  1813,"  on  a  shield.  The  dark  pine- 
covered  mountains  on  the  right  overlook  the  whole  field 
and  the  valley  of  Teplitz  ;  Napoleon  rode  along  their  crests 
several  days  after  the  battle  to  witness  the  scene  of  his 
defeat. 

Teplitz  lies  in  a  lovely  valley,  several  miles  wide,  bounded 
by  the  Bohemian  mountains  on  one  side  and  the  Erzgebirge 
on  the  other.  One  straggling  peak  near  is  crowned  with  a 
picturesque  ruin,  at  whose  foot  the  spacious  bath-buildings 
lie  half  hidden  in  foliage.  As  we  went  down  the  principal 
street  I  noticed  nearly  every  house  was  a  hotel ;  we  learned 
afterward  that  in  summer  the  usual  average  of  visitors  is 
five  thousand.  The  waters  resemble  those  of  the  celebrated 
Carlsbad ;  they  are  warm  and  particularly  efficacious  in 


166  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rheumatism  and  diseases  of  like  character.  After  leaving 
Teplitz  the  road  turned  to  the  east,  toward  a  lofty  moun- 
tain which  we  had  seen  the  morning  before.  The  peasants, 
as  they  passed  by,  saluted  us  with  "  Christ  greet  you !" 

We  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  foot  of  the  peak  called 
the  Milleschauer,  and  must  have  ascended  nearly  two  thou- 
sand feet,  for  we  had  a  wide  view  the  next  morning,  al- 
though the  mists  and  clouds  hid  the  half  of  it.  The  weather 
being  so  unfavorable,  we  concluded  not  to  ascend,  and,  tak- 
ing leave  of  the  Jena  student  who  came  there  for  that  pur- 
pose, descended  through  green  fields  and  orchards  snowy 
with  blossoms  to  Lobositz,  on  the  Elbe.  Here  we  reached 
the  plains  again,  where  everything  wore  the  luxuriance  of 
summer ;  it  was  a  pleasant  change  from  the  dark  and  rough 
scenery  we  left. 

The  road  passed  through  Theresienstadt,  the  fortress  of 
Northern  Bohemia.  The  little  city  is  surrounded  by  a  dou- 
ble wall  and  moat  which  can  be  filled  with  water,  render- 
ing it  almost  impossible  to  be  taken.  In  the  morning  we 
were  ferried  over  the  Moldau,  and  after  journeying  nearly 
all  day  across  barren,  elevated  plains  saw,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, the  sixty-seven  spires  of  Prague  below  us.  The  dark 
clouds  which  hung  over  the  hills  gave  us  little  time  to  look 
upon  the  singular  scene,  and  we  were  soon  comfortably  set- 
tled in  the  half-barbaric,  half-Asiatic  city  with  a  pleasant 
prospect  of  seeing  its  wonders  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER    XX 

SCENES   IN    PRAGUE. 


Prague. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  the  world  in  this  strange,  fantastic,  yet 
beautiful,  old  city.     We  have  been  rambling  all  morning 
through  its  winding  streets,  stopping  sometimes  at  a  church 


PRAGUE.  167 

to  see  the  dusty  tombs  and  shrines  or  to  hear  the  fine  music 
which  accompanies  the  morning  mass.  I  have  seen  no  city 
yet  that  so  forcibly  reminds  one  of  the  past  and  makes  him 
forget  everything  but  the  associations  connected  with  the 
scenes  around  him.  The  language  adds  to  the  illusion. 
Three-fourths  of  the  people  in  the  streets  speak  Bohemian 
and  many  of  the  signs  are  written  in  the  same  tongue,  which 
is  not  at  all  like  German.  The  palace  of  the  Bohemian 
kings  still  looks  down  on  the  city  from  the  western  heights, 
and  their  tombs  stand  in  the  cathedral  of  the  Holy  Jo- 
hannes. When  one  has  climbed  up  the  stone  steps  leading 
to  the  fortress,  there  is  a  glorious  prospect  before  him. 
Prague  with  its  spires  and  towers  lies  in  the  valley  below, 
through  which  curves  the  Moldau  with  its  green  islands, 
disappearing  among  the  hills  which  enclose  the  city  on 
every  side.  The  fantastic  Byzantine  architecture  of  many 
of  the  churches  and  towers  gives  the  city  a  peculiar  Oriental 
appearance :  it  seems  to  have  been  transported  from  the 
hills  of  Syria.  Its  streets  are  full  of  palaces,  fallen  and 
dwelt  in  now  by  the  poorer  classes.  Its  famous  university, 
which  once  boasted  forty  thousand  students,  has  long  since 
ceased  to  exist.  In  a  word,  it  is,  like  Venice,  a  fallen  city, 
though,  as  in  Venice,  the  improving  spirit  of  the  age  is  be- 
ginning to  give  it  a  little  life  and  to  send  a  quicker  stream 
through  its  narrow  and  winding  arteries.  The  railroad 
which,  joining  that  to  Brunn,  shall  bring  it  in  connection 
with  Vienna  will  be  finished  this  year ;  in  anticipation  of 
the  increased  business  which  will  arise  from  this,  speculators 
are  building  enormous  hotels  in  the  suburbs  and  tearing 
down  the  old  buildings  to  give  place  to  more  splendid  edi- 
fices. These  operations  and  the  chain  bridge  which  spans 
the  Moldau  toward  the  southern  end  of  the  city  are  the  only 
things  which  look  modern ;  everything  else  is  old,  strange, 
and  solemn. 

Having  found  out  first  a  few  of  the  locations,  we  hunted 
our  way  with  difficulty  through  its  labyrinths,  seeking  out 


168  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

every  place  of  note  or  interest.  Reaching  the  bridge  at  last, 
we  concluded  to  cross  over  and  ascend  to  the  Hradschin, 
the  palace  of  the  Bohemian  kings.  The  bridge  was  com- 
menced in  1357,  and  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  in 
building.  That  was  the  way  the  old  Germans  did  their 
work,  and  they  made  a  structure  which  will  last  a  thousand 
years  longer.  Every  pier  is  surmounted  with  groups  of 
saints  and  martyrs,  all  so  worn  and  timebeaten  that  there  is 
little  left  of  their  beauty,  if  they  ever  had  any.  The  most 
important  of  them — at  least,  to  Bohemians — is  that  of  the 
Holy  Johannes  of  Nepomuck,  now  considered  as  the  patron- 
saint  of  the  land.  He  was  a  priest  many  centuries  ago  whom 
one  of  the  kings  threw  from  the  bridge  into  the  Moldau  be- 
cause he  refused  to  reveal  to  him  what  the  queen  confessed. 
The  legend  says  the  body  swam  for  some  time  on  the  river 
with  five  stars  around  its  head.  The  16th  of  May,  the  day 
before  we  arrived,  was  that  set  apart  for  his  particular  honor. 
The  statue  on  the  bridge  was  covered  with  an  arch  of  green 
boughs  and  flowers,  and  the  shrine  lighted  with  burning 
tapers.  A  railing  was  erected  around  it,  near  which  num- 
bers of  the  believers  were  kneeling,  and  a  priest  stood  in 
the  inside.  The  bridge  was  covered  with  passers-by,  who 
all  took  their  hats  off  till  they  had  passed.  Had  it  been  a 
place  of  public  worship,  the  act  would  have  been  natural 
and  appropriate,  but  to  uncover  before  a  statue  seemed  to 
us  too  much  like  idolatry,  and  we  ventured  over  without 
doing  it.  A  few  years  ago  it  might  have  been  dangerous, 
but  now  we  only  met  with  scowling  looks.  There  are  many 
such  shrines  and  statues  through  the  city,  and  I  noticed  that 
the  people  always  took  off  their  hats  and  crossed  themselves 
in  passing.  On  the  hill  above  the  western  end  of  the  city 
stands  a  chapel  on  the  spot  where  the  Bavarians  put  an  end 
to  Protestantism  in  Bohemia  by  the  sword,  and  the  deluded 
peasantry  of  the  land  make  pilgrimages  to  this  spot — as  if  it 
were  rendered  holy  by  an  act  over  which  Religion  weeps! 
Ascending  the  broad  flight  of  steps  to  the  Hradschin,  I 


DAY-DREAMING.  1G9 

paused  a  moment  to  look  at  the  scene  below.  A  slight  blue 
haze  hung  over  the  clustering  towers,  and  the  city  looked 
dim  through  it,  like  a  city  seen  in  a  dream.  It  was  well 
that  it  should  so  appear,  for  not  less  dim  and  misty  are  the 
memories  that  haunt  its  walls.  There  was  no  need  of  a 
magician's  wand  to  bid  that  light  cloud  shadow  forth  the 
forms  of  other  times.  They  came  uncalled  for  even  by 
Fancy.  Far,  far  back  in  the  past  I  saw  the  warrior-princess 
who  founded  the  kingly  city — the  renowned  Libussa,  whose 
prowess  and  talent  inspired  the  women  of  Bohemia  to  rise 
at  her  death  and  storm  the  land  that  their  sex  might  rule 
where  it  obeyed  before.  On  the  mountain  opposite  once 
stood  the  palace  of  the  bloody  Wlaska,  who  reigned  with 
her  Amazon  band  for  seven  years  over  half  Bohemia. 
Those  streets  below  had  echoed  with  the  fiery  words  of 
Huss,  and  the  castle  of  his  follower — the  blind  Ziska,  who 
met  and  defeated  the  armies  of  the  German  empire — moul- 
ders on  the  mountain  above.  Many  a  year  of  war  and  tem- 
pest has  passed  over  the  scene.  The  hills  around  have 
borne  the  armies  of  Wallenstein  and  Frederick  the  Great ; 
the  war-cry  of  Bavaria,  Sweden  and  Poland  has  echoed  in 
the  valley,  and  the  red  glare  of  the  midnight  cannon  or  the 
flames  of  burning  palaces  have  often  gleamed  along  the 
"  blood-dyed  waters  "  of  the  Moldau. 

But  this  was  a  day-dream  ;  the  throng  of  people  coming 
up  the  steps  waked  me  out  of  it.  We  turned  and  followed 
them  through  several  spacious  conrts  till  we  arrived  at  the 
cathedral,  which  is  magnificent  in  the  extreme.  The  dark 
Gothic  pillars,  whose  arches  unite  high  above,  are  sur- 
rounded with  gilded  monuments  and  shrines,  and  the  side- 
chapels  are  rich  in  elaborate  decorations.  A  priest  was 
speaking  from  a  pulpit  in  the  centre  in  the  Bohemian  lan- 
guage ;  which  not  being  the  most  intelligible,  I  went  to  the 
other  end  to  see  the  shrine  of  the  Holy  Johannes  of  Nepo- 
muck.  It  stands  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  side-aisles,  and  is 
composed  of  a  mass  of  gorgeous  silver  ornaments.  At  a  little 


170  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

distance  on  each  side  hang  four  massive  lamps  of  silver,  con- 
stantly burning.  The  pyramid  of  statues,  of  the  same  pre- 
cious metal,  has  at  each  corner  a  richly-carved  urn,  three 
feet  high,  with  a  crimson  lamp  burning  at  the  top.  Above, 
four  silver  angels  the  size  of  life  are  suspended  in  the  air, 
holding  up  the  corners  of  a  splendid  drapery  of  crimson 
and  gold.  If  these  figures  were  melted  down  and  distrib- 
uted among  the  poor  and  miserable  people  who  inhabit  Bo- 
hemia, they  would  then  be  angels  indeed,  bringing  happi- 
ness and  blessing  to  many  a  ruined  home-altar.  In  the 
same  chapel  is  the  splendid  burial-place  of  the  Bohemian 
killers,  of  gilded  marble  and  alabaster.  Numberless  tombs 
covered  with  elaborate  ornamental  work  fill  the  edifice.  It 
gives  one  a  singular  feeling  to  stand  at  one  end  and  look 
down  the  lofty  hall,  dim  with  incense-smoke  and  dark  with 
the  weight  of  many  centuries. 

On  the  way  down  again  we  stepped  into  the  St.  Nicholas 
church,  which  was  built  by  the  Jesuits.  The  interior  has 
a  rich  effect,  being  all  of  brown  and  gold.  The  massive 
pillars  are  made  to  resemble  reddish-brown  marble,  with 
gilded  capitals,  and  the  statues  at  the  base  are  profusely  or- 
namented in  the  same  style.  The  music  chained  me  there 
a  long  time.  There  was  a  grand  organ,  assisted  by  a  full 
orchestra  and  large  choir  of  singers.  It  was  placed  above, 
and  at  every  sound  of  the  priest's  bell  the  flourish  of  trum- 
pets and  deep  roll  of  the  drums  filled  the  dome  with  a  burst 
of  quivering  sound,  while  the  giant  pipes  of  the  organ 
breathed  out  their  full  harmony  and  the  very  air  shook  un- 
der the  peal.  It  was  like  a  triumphal  strain.  The  soul  be- 
came filled  with  thoughts  of  power  and  glory  ;  every  sense 
was  changed  into  one  dim,  indistinct  emotion  of  rapture 
which  held  the  spirit  as  if  spellbound.  I  could  almost  for- 
give the  Jesuits  the  superstition  and  bigotry  they  have 
planted  in  the  minds  of  men  for  the  indescribable  enjoy- 
ment that  music  gave.  When  it  ceased,  we  Avent  out  to  the 
world  again ;  and  the  recollection  of  it  seems  now  like  a 


THE  JEWS'   CITY.  171 

dream,  but  a  dream  whose  influence  will  last  longer  than 
many  a  more  palpable  reality. 

Not  far  from  this  place  is  the  palace  of  Wallenstein,  in 
the  same  condition  as  when  he  inhabited  it,  and  still  in  the 
possession  of  his  descendants.  It  is  a  plain,  large  building 
having  beautiful  gardens  attached  to  it,  which  are  open  to 
the  public.  We  went  through  the  court-yard,  threaded  a 
passage  with  a  roof  of  rough  stalactitic  rock  and  entered 
the  garden,  where  a  revolving  fountain  was  casting  up  its 
glittering  arches.  Among  the  flowers  at  the  other  end  of 
the  garden  there  is  a  remarkable  fountain.  It  is  but  a  sin- 
gle jet  of  water  which  rises  from  the  middle  of  a  broad 
basin  of  woven  wire,  but  by  some  means  it  sustains  a  hol- 
low gilded  ball — sometimes  for  many  minutes  at  a  time. 
When  the  ball  drops,  the  sloping  sides  of  the  basin  convey 
it  directly  to  the  fountain  again,  and  it  is  carried  up  to 
dance  a  while  longer  on  the  top  of  the  jet.  I  watched  it 
once  thus  supported  on  the  water  for  full  fifteen  minutes. 

There  is  another  part  of  Prague  which  is  not  less  inter- 
esting, though  much  less  poetical — the  Jews'  City.  In  our 
rambles  we  got  into  it  before  we  were  aware,  but  hurried 
immediately  out  of  it  again,  perfectly  satisfied  with  one 
visit.  We  came  first  into  a  dark,  narrow  street  whose 
sides  were  lined  with  booths  of  old  clothes  and  second-hand 
articles.  A  sharp-featured  old  woman  thrust  a  coat  before 
my  face,  exclaiming,  "  Herr,  buy  a  fine  coat !"  Instantly 
a  man  assailed  me  on  the  other  side :  "  Here  are  vests ! 
Pantaloons  !  Shirts  !"  I  broke  loose  from  them  and  ran 
on,  but  it  only  became  worse.  One  seized  me  by  the  arm, 
crying,  "  Lieber  Herr,  buy  some  stockings !"  and  another 
grasped  my  coat :  "  Hats,  Herr  !  hats  !  Buy  something,  or 
sell  me  something  !"  I  rushed  desperately  on,  shouting 
"  No,  no !"  with  all  my  might,  and  finally  got  safe  through. 

My  friend  having  escaped  their  clutches  also,  we  hunted 
the  way  to  the  old  Jewish  cemetery.  This  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  city,  and  has  not  been  used  for  a  hundred 


172  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

years.  We  could  find  no  entrance,  but  by  climbing  upon 
the  ruins  of  an  old  house  near  I  could  look  over  the  wall. 
A  cold  shudder  crept  over  me  to  think  that  warm,  joyous 
life,  as  I  then  felt  it,  should  grow  chill  and  pass  back  to 
clay  in  such  a  foul  charnel-house.  Large  mounds  of  earth 
covered  with  black,  decaying  gravestones  which  were 
almost  hidden  under  the  weeds  and  rank  grass  filled  the 
inclosure.  A  few  dark,  crooked  alder  trees  grew  among 
the  crumbling  tombs  and  gave  the  scene  an  air  of  gloom 
and  desolation  almost  fearful.  The  dust  of  many  a  genera- 
tion lies  under  these  mouldering  stones  ;  they  now  scarcely 
occupy  a  thought  in  the  minds  of  the  living  ;  and  yet  the 
present  race  toils  and  seeks  for  wealth  alone,  that  it  may 
pass  away  and  leave  nothing  behind — not  even  a  memory 
— for  that  which  will  follow  it." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


JOURNEY    THROUGH     EASTERN    BOHEMIA    AND     MORAVIA 

TO   THE    DANUBE. 

Our  road  the  first  two  days  after  leaving  Prague  led 
across  broad,  elevated  plains  across  which  a  cold  wind  came 
direct  from  the  summits  of  the  Riesengebirge,  far  to  our  left. 
Were  it  not  for  the  pleasant  view  we  had  of  the  rich  valley 
of  the  Upper  Elbe,  which  afforded  a  delightful  relief  to  the 
monotony  of  the  hills  around  us,  the  journey  would  have 
been  exceedingly  tiresome.  The  snow  still  glistened  on  the 
distant  mountains  ;  but  when  the  sun  shone  out,  the  broad 
valley  below,  clad  in  the  luxuriance  of  summer  and  extend- 
ing for  at  least  fifty  miles  with  its  woods,  meadows  and  white 
villages,  looked  like  a  real  Paradise.  The  long  ridges  over 
which  we  travelled  extend  for  nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles — from  the  Elbe  almost  to  the  Danube.     The  soil  is 


BOHEMIA.  173 

not  fertile,  the  inhabitants  are  exceedingly  poor,  and,  from 
our  own  experience,  the  climate  must  be  unhealthy.  In 
winter  the  country  is  exposed  to  the  full  sweep  of  the 
northern  winds,  and  in  summer  the  snn  shines  down  on  it 
with  unbroken  force.  There  are  few  streams  running 
through  it,  and  the  highest  part,  which  divides  the  waters 
of  the  Baltic  from  those  of  the  Black  Sea,  is  filled  for  a 
long  distance  with  marshes  and  standing  pools  whose  exha- 
lations must  inevitably  subject  the  inhabitants  to  disease. 
This  was  perceptible  in  their  sallow,  sickly  countenances; 
many  of  the  women  are  afflicted  with  the  goitre,  or  swelling 
of  the  throat ;  I  noticed  that  toward  evening  they  always 
carefully  muffled  up  their  faces.  According  to  their  own 
statements,  the  people  suffer  much  from  the  cold  in  winter, 
as  the  few  forests  the  country  affords  are  in  possession  of  the 
noblemen  to  whom  the  land  belongs,  and  they  are  not  will- 
ing to  let  them  be  cut  down.  The  dominions  of  these  petty 
despots  are  marked  along  the  road  with  as  much  precision 
as  the  boundaries  of  an  empire ;  we  saw  sometimes  their 
stately  castles  at  a  distance,  forming  quite  a  contrast  to  the 
poor  scattering  villages  of  the  peasants. 

At  Kollin  the  road,  which  had  been  running  eastward  in 
the  direction  of  Olmutz,  turned  to  the  south,  and  we  took 
leave  of  the  Elbe  after  tracing  back  his  course  from  Magde- 
burg nearly  to  his  home  in  the  mountains  of  Silesia.  The 
country  was  barren  and  monotonous,  but  a  bright  sunshine 
made  it  look  somewhat  cheerful.  We  passed  every  few 
paces  some  shrine  or  statue  by  the  roadside.  This  had 
struck  me  immediately  on  crossing  the  border  in  the  Saxon 
Switzerland :  it  seemed  as  if  the  boundary  of  Saxony  was 
that  of  Protestantism.  But  here,  in  the  heart  of  Bohemia, 
the  extent  to  which  this  image-worship  is  carried  exceeds 
anything  I  had  imagined.  There  is  something  pleasing  as 
well  as  poetical  in  tlie  idea  of  a  shrine  by  the  wayside 
where  the  weary  traveller  can  rest  and  raise  his  heart  in 
thankfulness  to  the  Power  that  protects  him.     Jt  was,  no 


174  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

doubt,  a  pious  spirit  that  placed  them  there,  but  the  people 
appear  to  pay  the  reverence  to  the  picture  which  they  should 
give  to  its  spiritual  image,  and  the  pictures  themselves  are 
so  shocking  and  ghastly  they  seem  better  calculated  to  excite 
horror  than  reverence.  It  was  really  repulsive  to  look  on 
images  of  the  Saviour  covered  with  blood,  and  generally 
with  swords  sticking  in  different  parts  of  the  body.  The 
Almighty  is  represented  as  an  old  man  wearing  a  bishop's 
mitre,  and  the  image  of  the  Virgin  is  always  dressed  in  a 
gay  silk  robe  with  beads  and  other  ornaments.  From  the 
miserable  painting,  the  faces  often  had  an  expression  that 
would  have  been  exceedingly  ludicrous  if  the  shock  given 
to  our  feelings  of  reverence  were  not  predominant.  The 
poor  degraded  peasants  always  uncovered  or  crossed  them- 
selves when  passing  by  these  shrines,  but  it  appeared  to  be 
rather  the  effect  of  habit  than  any  good  impulse,  for  the 
Bohemians  are  noted  all  over  Germany  for  their  dishonesty ; 
we  learned  by  experience  they  deserve  it.  It  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  either;  for  a  people  so  poor  and  miserable  and 
oppressed  will  soon  learn  to  take  advantage  of  all  who  ap- 
pear better  off  than  themselves.  They  had  one  custom  which 
was  touching  and  beautiful :  at  the  sound  of  the  church- 
bell,  as  it  rung  the  morning,  noon' and  evening  chimes,  every 
one  uncovered  and  repeated  to  himself  a  prayer.  Often,  as 
we  rested  at  noon  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  that  voice 
spoke  out  from  the  house  of  worship,  and  every  one  heeded 
its  tone.  Would  that  to  this  innate  spirit  of  reverence  were 
added  the  light  of  Knowledge  which  a  tyrannical  govern- 
ment denies  them. 

The  third  night  of  our  journey  we  stopped  at  the  little 
village  of  Stecken,  and  the  next  morning,  after  three  hours' 
walk  over  the  ridgy  heights,  reached  the  old  Moravian  city 
of  Iglau,  built  on  a  hill.  It  happened  to  be  Corpus  Christi 
day,  and  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  were  hastening 
there  in  their  gayest  dresses.  The  young  women  Avore  a 
crimson  scarf  around  the  head  with  long  fringed  and  em- 


STRANGE  TEAMS.  175 

broidered  ends  hanging  over  the  shoulders  or  falling  in  one 
smooth  fold  from  the  back  of  the  head.  They  were  attired 
in  black  velvet  vests  with  full  white  sleeves,  and  skirts  of 
some  gay  color  which  were  short  enough  to  show  to  advan- 
tage their  red  stockings  and  polished  shoe-buckles.  Many 
of  them  were  not  deficient  in  personal  beauty :  there  was  a 
gipsy-like  wildness  in  their  eyes  that,  combined  with 
their  rich  hair  and  graceful  costume,  reminded  me  of  the 
Italian  maidens.  The  towns,  too,  with  their  open  squares 
and  arched  passages,  have  quite  a  Southern  look,  but  the 
damp,  gloomy  weather  was  enough  to  dispel  any  illusion  of 
this  kind. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  Iglau — and,  in  fact,  through  the 
whole  of  Bohemia — we  saAV  some  of  the  strangest  teams 
that  could  well  be  imagined.  I  thought  the  Frankfort 
milkwomen  with  their  donkeys  and  hearse-like  carts  were 
comical  objects  enough,  but  they  bear  no  comparison  with 
these  Bohemian  turnouts.  Dogs — for  economy's  sake,  per- 
haps— generally  supply  the  place  of  oxen  or  horses,  and  it 
is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  three  large  mastiffs  abreast 
harnessed  to  a  country-cart.  A  donkey  and  a  cow  together 
are  sometimes  met  with,  and  one  man  going  to  the  festival 
at  Iglau  had  his  wife  and  children  in  a  little  wagon  drawn 
by  a  dog  and  a  donkey.  These  two,  however,  did  not  wrork 
well  together  :  the  dog  would  bite  his  lazy  companion,  and 
the  man's  time  was  constantly  employed  in  whipping  him 
off  the  donkey  and  in  whipping  the  donkey  away  from  the 
side  of  the  road.  Once  I  saw  a  wagon  drawn  by  a  dog 
with  a  women  pushing  behind,  while  a  man — doubtless  her 
lord  and  master — sat  comfortably  within  smoking  his  pipe 
with  the  greatest  complacency.  The  very  climax  of  all 
was  a  woman  and  a  dog  harnessed  together  taking  a  load 
of  country  produce  to  market.  I  hope,  for  the  honor  of 
the  country,  it  was  not  emblematic  of  woman's  condition 
there.  But,  as  we  saw  hundreds  of  them  breaking  stone 
along  the  road  and  occupied  at  other  laborious  and  not 


17G  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

less  menial  labor,  there  is  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  it 
is  so. 

As  we  approached  Iglau  we  heard  cannon-firing.  The 
crowd  increased,  and,  following  the  road,  we  came  to  an 
open  square  where  a  large  number  were  already  assembled ; 
shrines  were  erected  around  it  hung  with  pictures  and  pine- 
boughs,  and  a  long  procession  of  children  was  passing 
down  the  side  as  we  entered.  We  went  toward  the  middle, 
where  Neptune  and  his  Tritons  poured  the  water  from  their 
urns  into  two  fountains,  and  stopped  to  observe  the  scene. 
The  procession  came  on,  headed  by  a  large  body  of  priests 
in  white  robes,  with  banners  and  crosses.  They  stopped 
before  the  principal  shrine,  in  front  of  the  Rathhaus,  and 
began  a  solemn  religious  ceremony.  The  whole  crowd  of 
not  less  than  ten  thousand  persons  stood  silent  and  un- 
covered, and  the  deep  voice  of  the  officiating  priest  was 
heard  over  the  whole  square.  At  times  the  multitude  sang 
responses,  and  I  could  mark  the  sound  swelling  and  rolling 
up  like  a  mighty  wave  till  it  broke  and  slowly  sank  down 
again  to  the  deepest  stillness.  The  effect  was  marred  by 
the  rough  voice  of  the  officers  commanding  the  soldiery 
and  the  volleys  of  musketry  which  were  occasionally  dis- 
charged. It  degraded  the  solemnity  of  the  pageant  to  the 
level  of  a  military  parade. 

In  the  afternoon  we  were  overtaken  by  a  travelling 
handiverker  on  his  way  to  Vienna,  who  joined  company 
with  us.  We  walked  several  miles  together,  talking  on 
various  matters,  without  his  having  the  least  suspicion  we 
were  not  Germans.  He  had  been  at  Trieste,  and  at  length 
began  speaking  of  the  great  beauty  of  the  American  ves- 
sels there.  "  Yes,"  said  I,  "  our  vessels  are  admired  all 
over  the  world."  He  stared  at  me  without  comprehending: 
"  Your  vessels  ?"— "  Our  country's,"  I  replied.  "  We  are 
Americans."  I  can  see  still  his  look  of  incredulous  aston- 
ishment and  hear  the  amazed  tone  with  which  he  cried : 
"  You  Americans  ?     It  is  impossible  !"     We  convinced  him, 


A  WANDERING   JOURNEYMAN.  177 

nevertheless,  to  his  great  joy,  for  all  through  Germany  there 
is  a  curiosity  to  see  our  countrymen  and  a  kindly  feeling 
toward  them.  "  I  shall  write  down  in  my  hook,"  said  he, 
"so  that  I  shall  never  forget  it,  that  I  once  travelled  with 
two  Americans." 

We  stopped  together  for  the  night  at  the  only  inn  in  a 
large,  beggarly  village,  where  we  obtained  a  frugal  supper 
with  difficulty,  fox  a  regiment  of  Polish  lancers  was  quar- 
tered there  for  the  night,  and  the  pretty  IceUnerin  was  so 
busy  in  waiting  on  the  officers  that  she  had  no  eye  for  wan- 
dering journeymen,  as  she  took  us  to  be.  She  even  told  us 
the  beds  were  all  occupied  and  we  must  sleep  on  the  floor. 
Just  then  the  landlord  came  by.  "  Is  it  possible,  Herr  Land- 
lord," asked  our  new  companion,  "  that  there  is  no  bed  here 
for  us  ?  Have  the  goodness  to  look  again,  for  we  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  sleeping  on  the  floor  like  dogs."  This  speech 
had  its  effect,  for  the  kellncrin  was  commanded  to  find  us 
beds.  She  came  back  unwillingly  after  a  time  and  reported 
that  two  only  were  vacant.  As  a  German  bed  is  only  a 
yard  wide,  we  pushed  these  two  together ;  but  they  were 
still  too  small  for  three  persons,  and  I  had  a  severe  cold  in 
the  morning  from  sleeping  crouched  up  against  the  damp 
wall. 

The  next  day  we  passed  the  dividing-ridge  which  sepa- 
rates the  wraters  of  the  Elbe  from  the  Danube,  and  in  the 
evening  arrived  at  Znaim,  the  capital  of  Moravia.  It  is 
built  on  a  steep  hill  looking  down  on  the  valley  of  the 
Thaya,  whose  waters  mingle  with  the  Danube  near  Press- 
burg.  The  old  castle  on  the  height  near  was  formerly  the 
residence  of  the  Moravian  monarchs,  and  traces  of  the  an- 
cient walls  and  battlements  of  the  city  are  still  to  be  seen. 
The  handwerker  took  us  to  the  inn  frequented  by  his  craft 
— the  leather-curriers — and  we  conversed  together  till  bed- 
time. While  telling  me  of  the  opressive  laws  of  Austria, 
the  degrading  vassalage  of  the  peasants  and  the  horrors  of 
the  conscription  system,  he  paused  as  in  deep  thought,  and, 
12 


178  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

looking  at  me  with  a  suppressed  sigh,  said,  "  Is  it  not  true 
America  is  free  ?"  I  told  him  of  our  country  and  her  in- 
stitutions, adding  that,  though  we  were  not  yet  as  free  as 
we  hoped  and  wished  to  be,  we  enjoyed  far  more  liberty 
than  any  country  in  the  world.  "Ah  !"  said  he  ;  "  it  is  hard 
to  leave  one's  fatherland,  oppressed  as  it  is,  but  I  wish  I 
could  go  to  America."  We  left  next  morning  at  eight 
o'clock,  after  having  done  full  justice  to  the  beds  of  the 
Golden  Stag  and  taken  leave  of  Florian  Francke,  the  hon- 
est and  hearty  old  landlord. 

Znaim  appears  to  great  advantage  from  the  Vienna  road  ; 
the  wind,  which  blew  with  fury  against  our  backs,  would 
not  permit  us  to  look  long  at  it,  but  pushed  us  on  toward 
the  Austrian  border.  In  the  course  of  three  hours  we  were 
obliged  to  stop  at  a  little  village ;  it  blew  a  perfect  hurri- 
cane, and  the  rain  began  to  soak  through  our  garments. 
Here  we  stayed  three  hours  among  the  wagoners  who  stop- 
ped on  account  of  the  weather.  One  miserable  drunken 
wretch  whom  one  would  not  wish  to  look  at  more  than  once 
distinguished  himself  by  insulting  those  around  him  and 
devouring  like  a  beast  large  quantities  of  food.  When  the 
reckoning  was  given  him,  he  declared  he  had  already  paid, 
and,  the  waiter  denying  it,  he  said,  "  Stop  !  I  will  show  you 
something!"  pulled  out  his  passport  and  pointed  to  the 
name — "  Baron  von  Reitzenstein."  It  availed  nothing :  he 
had  fallen  so  low  that  his  title  inspired  no  respect ;  and 
when  Ave  left  the  inn,  they  were  still  endeavoring  to  get  their 
money  and  threatening  him  with  a  summary  proceeding  if 
the  demand  was  not  complied  with. 

Next  morning  the  sky  was  clear,  and  a  glorious  day 
opened  before  us.  The  country  became  more  beautiful  as 
we  approached  the  Danube ;  the  hills  were  covered  with 
vineyards  just  in  the  tender  green  of  their  first  leaves,  and 
the  rich  valleys  lay  in  Sabbath  stillness  in  the  warm  sun- 
shine. Sometimes  from  an  eminence  we  could  see  far  and 
wide  over  the  garden-like  slopes,  where  little  white  villages 


THE  ALPS  AND  THE   DANUBE.  179 

shone  among  the  blossoming  fruit  trees.  A  chain  of  blue 
hills  rose  in  front,  which  I  knew  almost  instinctively  stood 
by  the  Danube.  When  we  climbed  to  the  last  height  and 
began  to  descend  to  the  valley,  where  the  river  was  still 
hidden  by  luxuriant  groves,  I  saw  far  to  the  southwest  a 
range  of  faint  silvery  summits  rising  through  the  dim  ether 
like  an  airy  vision.  There  was  no  mistaking  those  snowy 
mountains.  My  heart  bounded  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  rap- 
turous excitement  at  this  first  view  of  the  Alps.  They  were 
at  a  great  distance,  and  their  outline  was  almost  blended 
with  the  blue  drapery  of  air  which  clothed  them.  I  gazed 
till  my  vision  became  dim  and  I  could  no  longer  trace  their 
airy  lines.  They  called  up  images  blended  with  the  grand- 
est events  in  the  world's  history.  I  thought  of  the  glorious 
spirits  who  have  looked  upon  them  and  trodden  their  rug- 
ged sides,  of  the  storms  in  which  they  veil  their  counte- 
nances and  the  avalanches  they  hurl  thundering  to  the  val- 
leys, of  the  voices  of  great  deeds  which  have  echoed  from 
their  crags  over  the  wide  earth,  and  of  the  ages  which  have 
broken  like  the  waves  of  a  mighty  sea  upon  their  everlast- 
ing summits. 

As  we  descended,  the  hills  and  forests  shut  out  this  sub- 
lime vision,  and  I  looked  to  the  wood-clothed  mountains 
opposite  and  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  current  that 
rolled  at  their  feet.  We  here  entered  upon  a  rich  plain  about 
ten  miles  in  diameter  which  lay  between  a  backward  sweep 
of  the  hills  and  a  curve  of  the  Danube.  It  was  covered  with 
the  richest  grain  ;  everything  wore  the  luxuriance  of  sum- 
mer, and  we  seemed  to  have  changed  seasons  since  leaving 
the  dreary  hills  of  Bohemia.  Continuing  over  the  plain, 
we  had  on  our  left  the  fields  of  Wagram  and  Essling,  the 
scene  of  two  of  Napoleon's  blood-bought  victories.  The  out- 
posts of  the  Carpathians  skirted  the  horizon — that  great 
mountain-range  which  stretches  through  Hungary  to  the 
borders  of  Russia. 

At  length  the  road  came  to  the  river's  side,  and  we  crossed 


180  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

on  wooden  bridges  over  two  or  three  arms  of  the  Danube, 
all  of  which  together  were  little  wider  than  the  Schuylkill 
at  Philadelphia.  When  we  crossed  the  last  bridge,  we  came 
to  a  kind  of  island  covered  with  groves  of  silver  ash.  Crowds 
of  people  filled  the  cool  walks  ;  booths  of  refreshment  stood 
by  the  roadside  and  music  was  everywhere  heard.  The 
road  finally  terminated  in  a  circle  where  beautiful  alleys 
radiated  into  the  groves;  from  the  opposite  side  a  broad 
street  lined  with  stately  buildings  extended  into  the  heart 
of  the  city,  and  through  this  avenue,  filled  with  crowds 
of  carriages  and  people  on  their  way  to  those  delightful 
walks,  we  entered  Vienna. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

VIENNA. 

May  31. 

I  have  at  last  seen  the  thousand  wonders  of  this  great 
capital,  this  German  Paris,  this  connecting-link  between  the 
civilization  of  Europe  and  the  barbaric  magnificence  of  the 
East.  It  looks  familiar  to  be  in  a  city  again  whose  streets 
are  thronged  with  people  and  resound  with  the  din  and 
bustle  of  business.  It  reminds  me  of  the  never-ending  crowds 
of  London  or  the  life  and  tumult  of  our  scarcely  less  active 
New  York.  Although  the  end  may  be  sordid  for  which  so 
many  are  laboring,  yet  the  very  sight  of  so  much  activity  is 
gratifying.  It  is  peculiarly  so  to  an  American.  After  re- 
siding in  a  foreign  land  for  some  time  the  peculiarities  of 
our  nation  are  more  easily  noticed ;  I  find  in  my  country- 
men abroad  a  vein  of  restless  energy— a  love  for  exciting 
action— which  to  many  of  our  good  German  friends  is  per- 
fectly incomprehensible.  It  might  have  been  this  which 
gave  at  once  a  favorable  impression  of  Vienna. 

The  morning  of  our  arrival  we  sallied  out  from  our  lodg- 
ings in  the  Leopoldstadt  to  explore  the  world  before  us. 


VIENNA.  181 

Entering  the  broad  Praterstrasse,  we  passed  down  to  the 
little  arm  of  the  Danube  which  separates  this  part  of  the 
new  city  from  the  old.  A  row  of  magnificent  coffee-houses 
occupy  the  bank,  and  numbers  of  persons  were  taking  their 
breakfasts  in  the  shady  porticoes.  The  Ferdinand's  Bridge, 
which  crosses  the  stream,  was  filled  with  people;  in  the 
motley  crowd  we  saw  the  dark-eyed  Greek,  and  Turks  in 
their  turbans  and  flowing  robes.  Little  brown  Hungarian 
boys  were  going  around  selling  bunches  of  lilies,  and  Italians 
with  baskets  of  oranges  stood  by  the  sidewalk.  The  throng 
became  greater  as  we  penetrated  into  the  old  city.  The 
streets  were  filled  with  carts  and  carriages,  and,  as  there 
are  no  side-pavements,  it  required  constant  attention  to  keep 
out  of  their  way.  Splendid  shops  fitted  up  with  great  taste 
occupied  the  whole  of  the  lower  stories,  and  goods  of  all 
kinds  hung  beneath  the  canvas  awnings  in  front  of  them. 
Almost  every  store  or  shop  was  dedicated  to  some  particular 
person  or  place,  which  was  represented  on  a  large  panel  by 
the  door.  The  number  of  these  paintings  added  much  to 
the  splendor  of  the  scene ;  I  was  gratified  to  find,  among  the 
images  of  kings  and  dukes,  one  dedicated  "  To  the  Ameri- 
can," with  an  Indian  chief  in  full  costume. 

The  Altstadt,  or  "  old  city,"  which  contains  about  sixty 
thousand  inhabitants,  is  completely  separated  from  the  sub- 
urbs, whose  population,  taking  the  whole  extent  within  the 
outer  barrier,  numbers  nearly  half  a  million.  It  is  situated 
on  a  small  arm  of  the  Danube  and  encompassed  by  a  series 
of  public  promenades,  gardens  and  walks,  varying  from  a 
quarter  to  half  a  mile  in  length,  called  the  "  Glacis."  This 
formerly  belonged  to  the  fortifications  of  the  city,  but,  as 
the  suburbs  grew  up  so  rapidly  on  all  sides,  it  was  chunked 
appropriately  to  a  public  walk.  The  city  is  still  surrounded 
with  a  massive  wall  and  a  deep  wide  moat,  but,  since  it  was 
taken  by  Napoleon  in  1809,  the  moat  has  been  changed  into 
a  garden  with  a  beautiful  carriage-road  along  the  bottom 
around  the  whole  city.     It  is  a  beautiful  sight  to  stand  on 


182  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  summit  of  the  wall  and  look  over  the  broad  Glacis,  with 
its  shady  roads  branching  in  every  direction  and  filled  with 
inexhaustible  streams  of  people.  The  Vorstaedte,  or  new 
cities,  stretch  in  a  circle  around  beyond  this  ;  all  the  finest 
buildings  front  on  the  Glacis,  among  which  the  splendid 
Vienna  Theatre  and  the  church  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo  are 
conspicuous.  The  mountains  of  the  Vienna  Forest  bound 
the  view,  with  here  and  there  a  stately  castle  on  their  woody 
summits.  I  was  reminded  of  London  as  seen  from  Regent's 
Park,  and  truly  this  part  of  Vienna  can  well  compare  with 
it.  On  penetrating  into  the  suburbs  the  resemblance  is  at 
an  end.  Many  of  the  public  thoroughfares  are  still  un- 
paved,  and  in  dry  weather  one  is  almost  choked  by  the 
clouds  of  fine  dust.  A  furious  wind  blows  from  the  moun- 
tains, sweeping  the  streets  almost  constantly  and  filling  the 
eyes  and  ears  with  it,  making  the  city  an  unhealthy  resi- 
dence for  strangers. 

There  is  no  lack  of  places  for  pleasure  or  amusement. 
Besides  the  numberless  walks  of  the  Glacis  there  are  the 
imperial  gardens,  with  their  cool  shades  and  flowers  and 
fountains  ;  the  Augarten,  laid  out  and  opened  to  the  public 
by  the  emperor  Joseph :  and  the  Prater,  the  largest  and 
most  beautiful  of  all.  It  lies  on  an  island  formed  by  the 
arms  of  the  Danube,  and  is  between  two  and  three  miles 
square.  From  the  circle  at  the  end  of  the  Praterstrasse 
broad  carriage-ways  extend  through  its  forests  of  oak  and 
silver  ash  and  over  its  verdant  lawns  to  the  principal  stream, 
which  bounds  it  on  the  north.  These  roads  are  lined  with 
stately  horse-chestnuts,  whose  branches  unite  and  form  a 
dense  canopy,  completely  shutting  out  the  sun.  Every 
afternoon  the  beauty  and  nobility  of  Vienna  whirl  through 
the  cool  groves  in  their  gay  equipages,  while  the  sidewalks 
are  thronged  with  pedestrians,  and  the  numberless  tables 
and  seats  with  which  every  house  of  refreshment  is  sur- 
rounded are  filled  with  merry  guests.  Here  on  Sundays 
and  holidays  the  people  repair  in  thousands.     The  woods 


THE   BELVIDERE  GALLERY.  183 

are  full  of  tame  deer,  which  run  perfectly  free  over  the 
whole  Prater.  I  saw  several  in  one  of  the  lawns  lying 
down  in  the  grass,  with  a  number  of  children  playing 
around  or  sitting  beside  them.  It  is  delightful  to  walk 
there  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  paths  are  crowded 
and  everybody  is  enjoying  the  release  from  the  dusty  city. 
It  is  this  free  social  life  which  renders  Vienna  so  attractive 
to  foreigners  and  draws  yearly  thousands  of  visitors  from 
all  parts  of  Europe. 

St.  Stephen's  cathedral,  in  the  centre  of  the  old  city,  is 
one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  Gothic  architecture  in  Ger- 
many. Its  unrivalled  tower,  which  rises  to  the  height  of 
four  hundred  and  twenty-eight  feet,  is  visible  from  every 
part  of  Vienna.  It  is  entirely  of  stone,  most  elaborately 
ornamented,  and  is  supposed  to  be  the  strongest  in  Europe. 
If  the  tower  was  finished,  it  might  rival  any  church  in  Eu- 
rope in  richness  and  brilliancy  of  appearance.  The  inside 
is  solemn  and  grand,  but  the  effect  is  injured  by  the  number 
of  small  chapels  and  shrines.  In  one  of  these  rests  the 
remains  of  Prince  Eugene  of  Savoy,  "  Der  edle  Bitter" 
known  in  a  ballad  to  every  man,  woman  and  child  in 
Germany. 

The  Belvidere  Gallery  fills  thirty-five  halls  and  contains 
three  thousand  pictures.  It  is  absolutely  bewildering  to 
walk  through  such  vast  collections ;  you  can  do  no  more 
than  glance  at  each  painting,  and  hurry  by  face  after  face 
and  figure  after  figure  on  which  you  would  willingly  gaze 
for  hours  and  inhale  the  atmosphere  of  beauty  that  sur- 
rounds them.  Then,  after  you  leave,  the  brain  is  filled  with 
their  forms  ;  radiant  spirit-faces  look  upon  you,  and  you  see 
constantly  in  fancy  the  calm  brow  of  a  Madonna,  the  sweet 
young  face  of  a  child  or  the  blending  of  divine  with  mortal 
beauty  in  an  angel's  countenance.  I  endeavor,  if  possible, 
always  to  make  several  visits — to  study  those  pictures  which 
cling  first  to  the  memory  and  pass  over  those  which  make 
little  or  no  impression.     It  is  better  to  have  a  few  images 


184  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

fresh  and  enduring  than  a  confused  and  indistinct  memory 
of  many. 

From  the  number  of  Madonnas  in  every  European  gal- 
lery, it  would  almost  seem  that  the  old  artists  painted  nothing 
else.  The  subject  is  one  which  requires  the  highest  genius 
to  do  it  justice,  and  it  is  therefore  unpleasant  to  see  so  many 
still,  inexpressive  faces  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  particularly 
by  the  Dutch  artists,  who  clothe  their  figures  sometimes  in 
the  stiff  costume  of  their  own  time.  Raphael  and  Murillo 
appear  to  me  to  be  almost  the  only  painters  who  have  ex- 
pressed what  perhaps  was  above  the  power  of  other  mas- 
ters— the  combined  love  and  reverence  of  the  mother  and 
the  divine  expression  in  the  face  of  the  Child,  prophetic  of 
his  mission  and  godlike  power. 

There  were  many  glorious  old  paintings  in  the  second 
story,  which  is  entirely  taken  up  with  pictures ;  two  or  three 
of  the  halls  were  devoted  to  selected  works  from  modern 
artists.  Two  of  these  I  would  give  everything  I  have  to 
possess.  One  of  them  is  a  winter  scene  representing  the 
portico  of  an  old  Gothic  church.  At  the  base  of  one  of  the 
pillars  a  woman  is  seated  in  the  snow,  half  benumbed,  clasp- 
ing an  infant  to  her  breast,  while  immediately  in  front  stands 
a  boy  of  perhaps  seven  or  eight  years,  his  little  hands  folded 
in  prayer,  while  the  chill  wind  tosses  the  long  curls  from 
his  forehead.  There  is  something  so  pure  and  holy  in  the 
expression  of  his  childish  countenance,  so  much  feeling  in 
the  lip  and  sorrowful  eye,  that  it  moves  one  almost  to  tears 
to  look  upon  it.  I  turned  back  half  a  dozen  times  from  the 
other  pictures  to  view  it  again,  and  blessed  the  artist  in  my 
heart  for  the  lesson  he  gave.  The  other  is  by  a  young  Italian 
painter  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  but  who,  if  he  never 
painted  anything  else,  is  worthy  a  high  place  among  the  ar- 
tists of  his  country.  It  represents  some  scene  from  the  his- 
tory of  Venice.  On  an  open  piazza  a  noble  prisoner  wasted 
and  pale  from  long  confinement  has  just  had  an  interview 
with  his  children.     He  reaches  his  arm  toward  them  as  if 


MONTEZUMA'S  BATTLE-AXE.  185 

for  the  last  time,  while  a  savage  keeper  drags  him  away. 
A  lovely  little  girl  kneels  at  the  feet  of  the  doge,  but  there 
is  no  compassion  in  his  stern  features,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
her  father  is  doomed. 

The  Lower  Belvidere,  separated  from  the  Upper  by  a 
large  garden  laid  out  in  the  style  of  that  at  Versailles,  con- 
tains the  celebrated  Ambraser  Sammhmg,  a  collection  of 
armor.  In  the  first  hall  I  noticed  the  complete  armor  of 
the  emperor  Maximilian  for  man  and  horse,  the  armor  of 
Charles  V.  and  Prince  Moritz  of  Saxony,  while  the  walls 
were  filled  with  figures  of  German  nobles  and  knights  in  the 
suits  they  wore  in  life.  There  is  also  the  armor  of  the  great 
"  Baver  of  Trient,"  trabant  of  the  archduke  Ferdinand. 
He  was  nearly  nine  feet  in  stature,  and  his  spear,  though 
not  equal  to  Satan's  in  Paradise  Lost,  would  still  make  a 
tree  of  tolerable  dimensions. 

In  the  second  hall  we  saw  weapons  taken  from  the  Turk- 
ish army  who  besieged  Vienna,  with  the  horse-tail  standards 
of  the  grand  vizier  Kara  Mustapha.  The  most  interesting 
article  was  the  battle-axe  of  the  unfortunate  Montezuma, 
which  was  probably  given  to  the  emperor  Charles  V.  by 
Cortez.  It  is  a  plain  instrument  of  dark-colored  stone  about 
three  feet  long. 

We  also  visited  the  Burgerllche  Zeughaus,  a  collection  of 
arms  and  weapons  belonging  to  the  citizens  of  Vienna.  It 
contains  sixteen  thousand  weapons  and  suits  of  armor,  in- 
cluding those  plundered  from  the  Turks  when  John  Sobieski 
conquered  them  and  relieved  Vienna  from  the  siege.  Be- 
sides a  great  number  of  sabres,  lances,  and  horsetails,  there 
is  the  blood-red  banner  of  the  grand  vizier,  as  well  as  his 
skull  and  shroud,  which  is  covei'ed  with  sentences  from  the 
Koran.  On  his  return  to  Belgrade  after  the  defeat  at 
Vienna  the  sultan  sent  him  a  bowstring,  and  he  was  ac- 
cordingly strangled.  The  Austrians  having  taken  Belgrade 
some  time  after,  they  opened  his  grave  and  carried  off  his 
skull  and  shroud,  as  well  as  the  bowstring,  as  relics.     An- 


186  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

other  large  and  richly-embroidered  banner  which  hung  in 
a  broad  sheet  from  the  ceiling  was  far  more  interesting  to 
me.  It  had  once  waved  from  the  vessels  of  the  Knights  of 
Malta,  and  had,  perhaps,  on  the  prow  of  the  grand  master's 
ship,  led  that  romantic  band  to  battle  against  the  Infidel. 

A  large  number  of  peasants  and  common  soldiers  were 
admitted  to  view  the  armory  at  the  same  time.  The  grave 
custode  who  showed  us  the  curiosities,  explaining  everything 
in  phrases  known  by  heart  for  years  and  making  the  same 
starts  of  admiration  whenever  he  came  to  anything  peculi- 
arly remarkable,  singled  us  out  as  the  two  persons  most  wor- 
thy of  attention.  Accordingly,  his  remarks  were  directed 
entirely  to  us,  and  his  humble  countrymen  might  as  well 
have  been  invisible,  for  the  notice  he  took  of  them.  On 
passing  out  we  gave  him  a  coin  worth  about  fifteen  cents, 
which  happened  to  be  so  much  more  than  the  others  gave 
him  that,  bowing  graciously,  he  invited  us  to  write  our 
names  in  the  album  for  strangers.  While  we  were  doing 
this  a  poor  handiverker  lingered  behind,  apparently  for  the 
same  object,  whom  he  scornfully  dismissed,  shaking  the  fif- 
teen-cent piece  in  his  hand  and  saying,  "  The  album  is  not 
for  such  as  you :  it  is  for  noble  gentlemen." 

On  our  way  through  the  city  we  often  noticed  a  house  on 
the  southern  side  of  St.  Stephen's  Platz  dedicated  to  "  the 
iron  stick."  In  a  niche  by  the  window  stood  what  appeared 
to  be  the  limb  of  a  tree  completely  filled  with  nails,  which 
were  driven  in  so  thick  that  no  part  of  the  original  wood  is 
visible.  We  learned  afterward  the  legend  concerning  it. 
The  Vienna  Forest  is  said  to  have  extended,  several  hun- 
dred years  ago,  to  this  place.  A  locksmith's  apprentice  was 
enabled,  by  the  devil's  help,  to  make  the  iron  bars  and  pad- 
lock which  confine  the  limb  in  its  place ;  every  locksmith's 
apprentice  who  came  to  Vienna  after  that  drove  a  nail  into 
it,  till  finally  there  was  room  for  no  more.  It  is  a  singular 
legend,  and,  whoever  may  have  placed  the  limb  there  orig- 


STRAUSS.  187 

inally,  there  it  has  remained  for  two  or  three  hundred  years 
at  least. 

We  spent  two  or  three  hours  delightfully  one  evening  in 
listening  to  Strauss's  band.     We  went  about  sunset  to  the 
Odeon,  a  new  building  in  the  Leopoldstadt.     It  has  a  re- 
freshment-hall nearly  five  hundred  feet  long,  with  a  hand- 
some fresco  ceiling  and  glass  doors  opening  into  a  garden- 
walk  of  the  same  length.     Both  the  hall  and  garden  were 
filled  with  tables,  where  the  people  seated  themselves  as  they 
came  and  conversed  sociably  over  their  coffee  and  wine. 
The  orchestra  was  placed  in  a  little  ornamental  temple  in 
the  garden,  in  front  of  which  I  stationed  myself,  for  I  was 
anxious  to  see  the  world's  waltz-king  whose  magic  tones  can 
set  the  heels  of  half  Christendom  in  motion.     After  the 
band  had  finished  tuning  their  instruments,  a  middle-sized, 
handsome  man  stepped  forward  with  long  strides,  with  a 
violin  in  one  hand  and  bow  in  the  other,  and  began  wav- 
ing the  latter  up  and  down,  like  a  magician  summoning  his 
spirits.     As  if  he  had  waved  the  sound  out  of  his  bow,  the 
tones  leaped  forth  from  the  instruments,  and,  guided  by  his 
eye  and  hand,  fell  into  a  merry  measure.     The  accuracy 
with  which  every  instrument  performed  its  part  was  truly 
marvellous.     He  could  not  have  struck  the  measure  or  the 
harmony  more  certainly  from  the  keys  of  his  own   piano 
than  from  that  large  band.     The  sounds  struggled  forth  so 
perfect  and  distinct  that  one  almost  expected  to  see  them 
embodied,  whirling  in  wild  dance  around  him.     Sometimes 
the  air  was  so  exquisitely  light  and  bounding  the  feet  could 
scarcely  keep  on  the  earth ;  then  it  sank  into  a  mournful 
lament  with  a  sobbing  tremulousness,  and  died  away  in  a 
lono--breathed  sigh.     Strauss  seemed  to  feel  the  music  in 
every  limb.     He  would  wave  his  fiddle-bow  a  while,  then 
commence  playing  with  desperate  energy,  moving  his  whole 
body  to  the  measure,  till  the  sweat  rolled  from  his  brow.    A 
book  was  lying  on  the  stand  before  him,  but  he  made  no 
use  of  it.     He  often  glanced  around  with  a  kind  of  half- 


188  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

triumphant  smile  at  the  restless  crowd,  whose  feet  could 
scarcely  be  restrained  from  bounding  to  the  magic  measure. 
It  was  the  horn  of  Oberon  realized.  The  composition  of 
the  music  displayed  great  talent,  but  its  charm  consisted 
more  in  the  exquisite  combination  of  the  different  instru- 
ments, and  the  perfect,  the  wonderful,  exactness  with  which 
each  performed  its  part — a  piece  of  art  of  the  most  elabo- 
rate and  refined  character. 

The  company,  which  consisted  of  several  hundred,  ap- 
peared to  be  full  of  enjoyment.  They  sat  under  the  trees 
in  the  calm,  cool  twilight  with  the  stars  twinkling  above, 
and  talked  and  laughed  sociably  together  between  the 
pauses  of  the  music,  or  strolled  up  and  down  the  lighted 
alleys.  We  walked  up  and  down  with  them,  and  thought 
how  much  we  should  enjoy  such  a  scene  at  home,  where  the 
faces  around  us  would  be  those  of  friends  and  the  language 
our  mother-tongue. 

We  went  a  long  way  through  the  suburbs  one  bright 
afternoon  to  a  little  cemetery  about  a  mile  from  the  city  to 
find  the  grave  of  Beethoven.  On  ringing  at  the  gate  a  girl 
admitted  us  into  the  grounds,  in  which  are  many  monu- 
ments of  noble  families  who  have  vaults  there.  I  passed 
up  the  narrow  walk,  reading  the  inscriptions,  till  I  came  to 
the  tomb  of  Franz  Clement,  a  young  composer  who  died 
two  or  three  years  ago.  On  turning  again  my  eye  fell  in- 
stantly on  the  word  "  Beethoven  "  in  golden  letters  on  a 
tombstone  of  gray  marble.  A  simple  gilded  lyre  decorated 
the  pedestal,  above  which  was  a  serpent  encircling  a  but- 
terfly— the  emblem  of  resurrection  to  eternal  life.  Here, 
then,  mouldered  the  remains  of  that  restless  spirit  who 
seemed  to  have  strayed  to  earth  from  another  clime,  from  such 
a  height  did  he  draw  his  glorious  conceptions.  The  perfec- 
tion he  sought  for  here  in  vain  he  has  now  attained  in  a 
world  where  the  soul  is  freed  from  the  bars  which  bind  it 
in  this.  There  were  no  flowers  planted  around  the  tomb 
by  those  who  revered  his  genius  ;  only  one  wreath,  with- 


THE  IMPERIAL  LIBRARY.  189 

ered  and  dead,  lay  among  the  grass,  as  if  left  long  ago  by 
some  solitary  pilgrim,  and  a  few  wild  buttercups  hung  with 
their  bright  blossoms  over  the  slab.  It  might  have  been 
wrong,  but  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  steal  one  or 
two  while  the  old  gravedigger  was  busy  preparing  a  new 
tenement.  I  thought  that  other  buds  would  open  in  a  few 
days,  but  those  I  took  would  be  treasured  many  a  year  as 
sacred  relics.  A  few  paces  off  is  the  grave  of  Schubert, 
the  composer  whose  beautiful  songs  are  heard  all  over 
Germany. 

It  would  employ  one  a  week  to  visit  all  the  rich  collec- 
tions of  art  in  Vienna.  They  are  all  open  to  the  public  on 
certain  days  of  the  week,  and  we  have  been  kept  constantly 
in  motion  running  from  one  part  of  the  city  to  another  in 
order  to  arrive  at  some  gallery  at  the  appointed  time. 
Tickets — which  have  to  be  procured,  often,  in  quite  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  city — are  necessary  for  admittance  to 
many  ;  on  applying,  after  much  trouble  and  search,  we 
frequently  found  we  came  at  the  wrong  hour  and  must 
leave  without  effecting  our  object.  We  employed  no  guide, 
but  preferred  finding  everything  ourselves.  We  made  a 
list  every  morning  of  the  collections  open  during  the  day, 
and  employed  the  rest  of  the  time  in  visiting  the  churches 
and  public  gardens  or  rambling  through  the  suburbs. 

We  visited  the  imperial  library  a  day  or  two  ago.  The 
hall  is  two  hundred  and  forty-five  feet  long,  with  a  magnif- 
icent dome  in  the  centre,  under  which  stands  the  statue  of 
Charles  V.,  of  Carrara  marble,  surrounded  by  twelve 
other  monarchs  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg.  The  walls  are 
of  variegated  marble  richly  ornamented  with  gold,  and  the 
ceiling  and  dome  are  covered  with  brilliant  fresco-paintings. 
The  library  numbers  three  hundred  thousand  volumes  and 
sixteen  thousand  manuscripts,  which  are  kept  in  walnut 
cases  gilded  and  adorned  with  medallions.  The  rich  and 
harmonious  effect  of  the  whole  cannot  easily  be  imagined. 
It  is  exceedingly  appropriate  that  a  hall  of  such  splendor 


190  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

should  be  used  to  hold  a  library.  The  pomp  of  a  palace 
may  seem  hollow  and  vain,  for  it  is  but  the  dwelling  of  a 
man  ;  but  no  building  can  be  too  magnificent  for  the  hun- 
dreds of  great  and  immortal  spirits  to  dwell  in  who  have 
visited  earth  during  thirty  centuries. 

Among  other  curiosities  preserved  in  the  collection,  we 
were  shown  a  brass  plate  containing  one  of  the  records  of 
the  Roman  Senate  made  one  hundred  and  eighty  years  be- 
fore Christ,  Greek  manuscripts  of  the  fifth  and  sixth  cen- 
turies, and  a  volume  of  Psalms  printed  on  parchment  in 
the  year  1457  by  Faust  and  Schaeffer,  the  inventors  of 
printing.  There  were  also  Mexican  manuscripts  presented 
by  Cortez,  the  prayer-book  of  Hildegard,  wife  of  Char- 
lemagne, in  letters  of  gold,  the  signature  of  San  Carlo  Bor- 
romeo,  and  a  Greek  Testament  of  the  thirteenth  century 
which  had  been  used  by  Erasmus  in  making  his  translation 
and  contains  notes  in  his  own  hand.  The  most  interesting 
article  was  the  "  Jerusalem  Delivered "  of  Tasso,  in  the 
poet's  own  hand,  with  his  erasions  and  corrections. 

We  also  visited  the  cabinet  of  natural  history,  which  is 
open  twice  a  week  "  to  all  respectably-dressed  persons,"  as 
the  notice  at  the  door  says.  But  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  attempt  to  describe  what  we  saw  there !  The  min- 
eral cabinet  had  a  greater  interest  to  me,  inasmuch  as  it 
called  up  the  recollections  of  many  a  schoolboy  ramble 
over  the  hills  and  into  all  kinds  of  quarries,  far  and  near. 
It  is  said  to  be  the  most  perfect  collection  in  existence.  I 
was  pleased  to  find  many  old  acquaintances  there  from  the 
mines  of  Pennsylvania ;  Massachusetts  and  New  York  were 
also  very  well  represented.  I  had  no  idea  before  that  the 
mineral  wealth  of  Austria  was  so  great.  Besides  the  iron- 
and  lead-mines  among  the  hills  of  Styria  and  the  quick- 
silver of  Idria,  there  is  no  small  amount  of  gold  and  silver 
found,  and  the  Carpathian  Mountains  are  rich  in  jasper, 
opal  and  lapis  lazuli.     The  largest  opal  ever  found  was  in 


AUSTRIAN  ROYAL  EQUIPAGES.  191 

this  collection.     It  weighs  thirty-four  ounces  and  looks  like 
a  condensed  rainbow. 

In  passing  the  palace  we  saw  several  persons  entering  the 
basement-story  under  the  library,  and  had  the  curiosity  to 
follow  them.  By  so  doing  we  saw  the  splendid  equipages 
of  the  house  of  Austria,  There  must  have  been  near  a 
hundred  carriages  and  sleds,  of  every  shape  and  style,  from 
the  heavy  square  vehicle  of  the  last  century  to  the  most 
light  and  elegant  conveyance  of  the  present  day.  One 
clumsy  but  magnificent  machine  of  crimson  and  gold  was 
pointed  out  as  being  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old.  The 
misery  we  witnessed  in  starving  Bohemia  formed  a  striking 
contrast  to  all  this  splendor. 

Besides  the  imperial  picture-gallery,  there  are  several  be- 
longing to  princes  and  noblemen  in  Vienna  which  are 
scarcely  less  valuable.  The  most  important  of  these  is  that 
of  Prince  Liechtenstein,  which  we  visited  yesterday.  We 
applied  to  the  porter's  lodge  for  admittance  to  the  gallery, 
but  he  refused  to  open  it  for  two  persons ;  as  we  did  not 
wish  a  long  walk  for  nothing,  we  concluded  to  wait  for  other 
visitors.  Presently  a  gentleman  and  lady  came  and  inquired 
if  the  gallery  was  open.  We  told  him  it  would  probably 
be  opened  now,  although  the  porter  required  a  larger  num- 
ber, and  he  went  to  ask.  After  a  short  time  he  returned, 
saying,  "  He  will  come  immediately.  I  thought  best  to  put 
the  number  a  little  higher,  and  so  I  told  him  there  were  six 
of  us." 

Having  little  artistic  knowledge  of  paintings,  I  judge  of 
them  according  to  the  effect  they  produce  upon  me  in  pro- 
portion as  they  gratify  the  innate  love  for  the  beautiful  and 
the  true.  I  have  been,  therefore,  disappointed  in  some 
painters  whose  names  are  widely  known,  and  surprised, 
again,  to  find  works  of  great  beauty  by  others  of  smaller 
fame.  Judging  by  such  a  standard,  I  should  say  that 
"Cupid  sleeping  in  the  Lap  of  Venus,"  by  Correggio,  is  the 
glory  of  this  collection.    The  beautiful  limbs  of  the  boy-god 


192  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

droop  in  the  repose  of  slumber  as  his  head  rests  on  his 
mother's  knee,  and  there  is  a  smile  lingering  around  his 
half-parted  lips,  as  if  he  was  dreaming  new  triumphs.  The 
face  is  not  that  of  the  wicked,  mischief-loving  child,  but 
rather  a  sweet  cherub  bringing  a  blessing  to  all  he  visits. 
The  figure  of  the  goddess  is  exquisite.  Her  countenance, 
unearthly  in  its  loveliness,  expresses  the  tenderness  of  a 
young  mother  as  she  sits  with  one  finger  pressed  on  her  rosy 
lip  watching  his  slumber.  It  is  a  picture  which  "  stings  the 
brain  with  beauty." 

The  chapel  of  St.  Augustine  contains  one  of  the  best 
works  of  Canova — the  monument  of  the  grand  duchess 
Maria  Christina  of  Sachsen-Teschen.  It  is  a  pyramid  of 
gray  marble,  twenty-eight  feet  high,  with  an  opening  in  the 
side  representing  the  entrance  to  a  sepulchre.  A  female 
figure  personating  Virtue  bears  in  an  urn  to  the  grave  the 
ashes  of  the  departed,  attended  by  two  children  with  torches. 
The  figure  of  Compassion  follows,  leading  an  aged  beggar 
to  the  tomb  of  his  benefactor,  and  a  little  child  with  its 
hands  folded.  On  the  lower  step  rests  a  mourning  genius 
beside  a  sleeping  lion,  and  a  bas-relief  on  the  pyramid  above 
represents  an  angel  carrying  Christina's  image,  surrounded 
with  the  emblem  of  eternity,  to  heaven.  A  spirit  of  deep 
sorrow,  which  is  touchingly  portrayed  in  the  countenance 
of  the  old  man,  pervades  the  whole  group.  While  we  look- 
ed at  it  the  organ  breathed  out  a  slow,  mournful  strain 
which  harmonized  so  fully  with  the  expression  of  the  figures 
that  we  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  requiem  of  the  one 
they  mourned.  The  combined  effect  of  music  and  sculp- 
ture thus  united  in  their  deep  pathos  was  such  that  I  could 
have  sat  down  and  wept.  It  was  not  from  sadness  at  the 
death  of  a  benevolent  though  unknown  individnal,  but  the 
feeling  of  grief,  of  perfect,  unmingled  sorrow,  so  powerfully 
represented,  came  to  the  heart  like  an  echo  of  its  own  emo- 
tion and  carried  it  away  with  irresistible  influence.  Trav- 
ellers have  described  the  same  feeling  while  listening  to  the 


A  CRUSTY  GUIDE.  193 

Miserere  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  at  Rome.  Canova  could  not 
have  chiselled  the  monument  without  tears. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  objects  in  Vienna  is  the  im- 
perial armory.  We  were  admitted  through  tickets  pre- 
viously procured  from  the  armory  direction ;  as  there  was 
already  one  large  company  within,  we  were  told  to  wait  in 
the  court  till  our  turn  came.  Around  the  wall,  on  the  in- 
side, is  suspended  the  enormous  chain  which  the  Turks 
stretched  across  the  Danube  at  Buda  in  the  year  1529  to 
obstruct  the  navigation.  It  has  eight  thousand  links  and  is 
nearly  a  mile  in  length.  The  court  is  filled  with  cannon  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes,  many  of  which  were  conquered  from 
other  nations.  I  saw  a  great  many  which  were  cast  during 
the  French  Revolution,  with  the  words  "Liberte  !  Egalite  !" 
upon  them,  and  a  number  of  others  bearing  the  simple  let- 
ler  "  N." 

Finally  the  first  company  came  down,  and  the  forty  or 
fifty  persons  who  had  collected  during  the  interval  were  ad- 
mitted. The  armory  runs  around  a  hollow  square,  and 
must  be  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length.  We  were 
all  taken  into  a  circular  hall  made  entirely  of  weapons,  to 
represent  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Here  the  crusty 
old  guide  who  admitted  us  rapped  with  his  stick  on  the 
shield  of  an  old  knight  who  stood  near  to  keep  silence,  and 
then  addressed  us :  "  When  I  speak,  every  one  must  be  si- 
lent. No  one  can  write  or  draw  anything.  No  one  shall 
touch  anything  or  go  to  look  at  anything  else  before  I  have 
done  speaking.  Otherwise,  they  shall  be  taken  immediately 
into  the  street  again."  Thus  in  every  hall  he  rapped  and 
scolded,  driving  the  women  to  one  side  with  his  stick  and 
the  men  to  the  other,  till  we  were  nearly  through,  when  the 
thought  of  the  coming  fee  made  him  a  little  more  polite. 
He  had  a  regular  set  of  descriptions  by  heart,  which  he 
went  through  with  a  great  flourish,  pointing  particularly  to 
the  common  military  caps  of  the  late  emperors  of  Prussia 
and  Austria  as  "  treasures  beyond  all  price  to  the  nation." 

13 


194  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Whereupon  the  crowd  of  common  people  gazed  reverently 
on  the  shabby  beavers,  and,  I  verily  believe,  would  have 
devoutly  kissed  them  had  the  glass  covering  been  removed. 
I  happened  to  be  next  to  a  tall,  dignified  young  man  who 
looked  on  all  this  with  a  displeasure  almost  amounting  to 
contempt.  Seeing  I  was  a  foreigner,  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
bitterly  of  the  Austrian  government.  "  You  are  not,  then, 
an  Austrian  ?"  I  asked. — "  No,  thank  God !"  was  the  reply; 
"  but  I  have  seen  enough  of  Austrian  tyranny.  I  am  a 
Pole." 

The  first  wing  contains  banners  used  in  the  French  Rev- 
olution, and  liberty-trees  with  the  red  cap,  the  armor  of 
Rudolph  of  Hapsburg,  Maximilian  I.,  the  emperor  Charles 
V.,  and  the  hat,  sword  and  order  of  Marshal  Schwarzen- 
berg.  Some  of  the  halls  rejiresent  a  fortification,  with  walls, 
ditches  and  embankments,  made  of  muskets  and  swords. 
A  long  room  in  the  second  wing  contains  an  encampment 
in  which  twelve  or  fifteen  large  tents  are  formed  in  like 
manner.  Along  the  sides  are  grouped  old  Austrian  ban- 
ners, standards  taken  from  the  French  and  horsetails  and 
flags  captured  from  the  Turks.  "  They  make  a  great 
boast,"  said  the  Pole,  "  of  a  half  dozen  French  colors ;  but 
let  them  go  to  the  Hospital  des  Invalides,  in  Paris,  and  they 
will  find  hundreds  of  the  best  banners  of  Austria."  They 
also  exhibited  the  armor  of  a  dwarf  king  of  Bohemia  and 
Hungary  who  died  a  gray-headed  old  man  in  his  twentieth 
year,  the  sword  of  Marlborough,  the  coat  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  pierced  in  the  breast  and  back  with  the  bullet 
which  killed  him  at  Liitzen,  the  armor  of  the  old  Bohemian 
princess  Libussa,  and  that  of  the  amazon  Wlaska,  with  a 
steel  visor  made  to  fit  the  features  of  her  face.  The  last 
wins;  was  the  most  remarkable.  Here  we  saw  the  helm  and 
breastplate  of  Attila,  king  of  the  Huns,  which  once  glanced 
at  the  head  of  his  myriads  of  wild  hordes  before  the  walls 
of  Rome ;  the  armor  of  Count  Stahremberg,  who  com- 
manded Vienna  during  the  Turkish  siege  in  1529,  and  the 


BOYHOOD  KEVIVIFIED.  195 

holy  banner  of  Mohammed,  taken  at  that  time  from  the 
grand  vizier,  together  with  the  steel  harness  of  John  Sobi- 
eski  of  Poland,  who  rescued  Vienna  from  the  Turkish 
troops  under  Kara  Mustapha ;  the  hat,  sword  and  breast- 
plate of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  the  crusader-king  of  Jerusa- 
lem, with  the  banners  of  the  cross  the  crusaders  had  borne 
to  Palestine  and  the  standard  they  captured  from  the  Turks 
on  the  walls  of  the  Holy  City.  I  felt  all  my  boyish  enthu- 
siasm for  the  romantic  age  of  the  crusaders  revive  as  I 
looked  on  the  torn  and  mouldering  banners  which  once 
waved  on  the  hills  of  Judea,  or  perhaps  followed  the  sword 
of  the  Lion-Heart  through  the  fight  on  the  field  of  Ascalon. 
What  tales  could  they  not  tell,  those  old  standards  cut  and 
shivered  by  spear  and  lance  !  What  brave  hands  have 
carried  them  through  the  storm  of  battle,  what  dying  eyes 
have  looked  upward  to  the  cross  on  their  folds  as  the  last 
prayer  was  breathed  for  the  rescue  of  the  holy  sepulchre. 

I  must  now  close  the  catalogue.  This  morning  we  shall 
look  upon  Vienna  for  the  last  time.  Our  knapsacks  are 
repacked,  and  the  passports  (precious  documents !)  vised  for 
Munich.  The  getting  of  this  vise,  however,  caused  a  com- 
ical scene  at  the  police-office  yesterday.  We  entered  the 
inspector's  hall  and  took  our  stand  quietly  among  the  crowd 
of  persons  who  were  gathered  around  a  railing  which  sepa- 
rated them  from  the  main  office.  One  of  the  clerks  came 
up,  scowling  at  us,  and  asked  in  a  rough  tone,  "  What  do 
you  want  here?"  We  handed  him  our  tickets  of  sojourn 
(for  when  a  traveller  spends  more  than  twenty-four  hours 
in  a  German  city,  he  must  take  out  a  permission  and  pay 
for  it)  with  the  request  that  he  would  give  us  our  passports. 
He  glanced  over  the  tickets,  came  back  and  with  constrained 
politeness  asked  us  to  step  within  the  railing.     Here  we  were 

introduced  to  the  chief-inspector.      "  Desire  Herr to 

come  here,"  said  he  to  a  servant ;  then,  turning  to  us,  "  I 
am  happy  to  see  the  gentlemen  in  Vienna."  An  officer  im- 
mediately came  up,  who  addressed  us  in  fluent  English. 


196  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

"  You  may  speak  in  your  native  tongue,"  said  the  inspector. 
"  Excuse  our  neglect.  From  the  facility  with  which  you 
speak  German,  we  supposed  you  were  natives  of  Austria." 
Our  passports  were  signed  at  once  and  given  us  with  a  gra- 
cious bow,  accompanied  by  the  hope  that  we  would  visit 
Vienna  again  before  long.  All  this,  of  course,  was  perfectly 
unintelligible  to  the  wondering  crowd  outside  the  railing. 
Seeing,  however,  the  honors  we  were  receiving,  they  crowded 
back  and  respectfully  made  room  for  us  to  pass  out.  I  kept 
a  grave  face  till  we  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  when 
I  gave  way  to  restrained  laughter  in  a  manner  that  shocked 
the  dignity  of  the  guard,  who  looked  savagely  at  me  over 
his  forest  of  moustache.  I  would,  nevertheless,  have  felt 
grateful  for  the  attention  we  received  as  Americans,  were  it 
not  for  our  uncourteous  reception  as  suspected  Austrians. 

We  have  just  been  exercising  the  risible  muscles  again, 
though  from  a  very  different  cause,  and  one  which,  accord- 
ing to  common  custom,  ought  to  draw  forth  symptoms  of  a 
lachrymose  nature.  This  morning  B suggested  an  ex- 
amination of  our  funds,  for  we  had  neglected  keeping  a 
strict  account,  and,  what  with  being  cheated  in  Bohemia 
and  tempted  by  the  amusements  of  Vienna,  there  was  an 
apparent  dwindling  away.  So  we  emptied  our  pockets  and 
purses,  counted  up  the  contents,  and  found  we  had  just  ten 
florins,  or  four  dollars,  apiece.  The  thought  of  our  situa- 
tion, away  in  the  heart  of  Austria,  five  hundred  miles  from 
our  Frankfort  home,  seems  irresistibly  laughable.  By  al- 
lowing twenty  days  for  the  journey,  we  shall  have  half 
a  florin  a  day  to  travel  on.  This  is  a  homoeopathic  allow- 
ance, indeed,  but  we  have  concluded  to  try  it. — So  now 
adieu,  Vienna !  In  two  hours  we  shall  be  among  the  hills 
again. 


THE  VIENNA  FOREST.  197 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 

UP   THE    DANUBE. 

We  passed  out  of  Vienna  in  the  face  of  one  of  the  strong- 
est winds  it  was  ever  ray  lot  to  encounter.  It  swept  across 
the  plain  with  such  force  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
advance  till  we  got  under  the  lee  of  a  range  of  hills.  About 
two  miles  from  the  barrier  we  passed  Schoenbrunn,  the  Aus- 
trian Versailles.  It  was  built  by  the  empress  Maria  The- 
resa, and  was  the  residence  of  Napoleon  in  1809,  when 
Vienna  was  in  the  hands  of  the  French.  Later,  in  1832, 
the  duke  of  Reichstadt  died  in  the  same  room  which  his 
father  once  occupied.  Behind  the  palace  is  a  magnificent 
garden,  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  covered  with  rich  forests  and 
crowned  with  an  open  pillared  hall  three  hundred  feet  long, 
called  the  Gloriette.  The  colossal  eagle  which  surmounts  it 
can  be  seen  a  great  distance. 

The  lovely  valley  in  which  Schoenbrunn  lies  follows  the 
course  of  the  little  river  Vienna  into  the  heart  of  that  moun- 
tain-region lying  between  the  Styrian  Alps  and  the  Danube, 
and  called  the  Vienna  Forest.  Into  this  our  road  led,  be- 
tween hills  covered  with  wood,  with  here  and  there  a  lovely 
green  meadow  where  herds  of  cattle  were  grazing.  The 
third  day  we  came  to  the  Danube  again  at  Melk,  a  little 
city  built  under  the  edge  of  a  steep  hill,  on  whose  summit 
stands  the  palace-like  abbey  of  the  Benedictine  monks. 
The  old  friars  must  have  had  a  merry  life  of  it,  for  the 
wine-cellar  of  the  abbey  furnished  the  French  army  fifty 
thousand  measures  for  several  days  in  succession.  The 
shores  of  the  Danube  here  are  extremely  beautiful.  The 
valley  where  it  spreads  out  is  filled  with  groves,  but  where 
the  hills  approach  the  stream  its  banks  are  rocky  and  pre- 
cipitous, like  the  Rhine.  Although  not  so  picturesque  as 
the  latter  river,  the  scenery  of  the  Danube  is  on  a  grander 


198  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

scale.  On  the  south  side  the  mountains  bend  down  to  it 
with  a  majestic  sweep,  and  there  must  be  delightful  glances 
into  the  valleys  that  lie  between  in  passing  down  the  current. 

But  we  soon  left  the  river  and  journeyed  on  through  the 
enchanting  inland  vales.  To  give  an  idea  of  the  glorious 
enjoyment  of  travelling  through  such  scenes,  let  me  copy  a 
leaf  out  of  my  journal,  written  as  we  rested  at  noon  on  the 
top  of  a  lofty  hill : 

"  Here,  while  the  delightful  mountain-breeze  that  comes 
fresh  from  the  Alps  cools  my  forehead  and  the  pines  around 
are  sighing  their  eternal  anthem,  I  seize  a  few  moments  to 
tell  what  a  paradise  is  around  me.  I  have  felt  an  elevation 
of  mind  and  spirit,  a  perfect  rapture  from  morning  till  night, 
since  we  left  Vienna.  It  is  the  brightest  and  balmiest  June 
weather ;  an  ever-fresh  breeze  sings  through  the  trees  and 
waves  the  ripening  grain  on  the  verdant  meadows  and  hill- 
slopes.  The  air  is  filled  with  bird-music.  The  larks  sing 
above  us  out  of  sight,  the  bullfinch  wakes  his  notes  in  the 
grove,  and  at  eve  the  nightingale  pours  forth  her  thrilling 
strain.  The  meadows  are  literally  covered  with  flowers; 
beautiful  purple  salvias,  pinks  such  as  we  have  at  home  in 
our  gardens  and  glowing  buttercups  color  the  banks  of  every 
stream.  I  never  saw  richer  or  more  luxuriant  foliage. 
Magnificent  forests  clothe  the  hills,  and  the  villages  are  im- 
bedded in  fruit  trees,  shrubbery  and  flowers.  Sometimes 
we  go  for  miles  through  some  enchanting  valley  lying  like 
a  paradise  between  the  mountains,  while  the  distant  white 
Alps  look  on  it  from  afar;  sometimes  over  swelling  ranges 
of  hills,  where  we  can  see  to  the  right  the  valley  of  the  Dan- 
ube threaded  by  his  silver  current  and  dotted  with  white 
cottages  and  glittering  spires,  and,  farther  beyond,  the  blue 
mountains  of  the  Bohemian  Forest.  To  the  left  the  range 
of  the  Styrian  Alps  stretches  along  the  sky,  summit  above 
summit,  the  farther  ones  robed  in  perpetual  snow.  I  could 
never  tire  gazing  on  those  glorious  hills.  They  fill  the  soul 
with  a  conception  of  sublimity  such  as  one  feels  when  lis- 


BOHEMIAN  GIPSIES.  199 

tening  to  triumphal  music.  They  seem  like  the  marble 
domes  of  a  mighty  range  of  temples  where  Earth  worships 
her  Maker  with  an  organ-anthem  of  storms. 

"  There  is  a  luxury  in  travelling  here.  We  walk  all  day 
through  such  scenes,  resting  often  in  the  shade  of  the  fruit 
trees  which  line  the  road,  or  on  a  mossy  bank  by  the  side 
of  some  cool  forest.  Sometimes,  for  enjoyment  as  well  as 
variety,  we  make  our  dining-plaee  by  a  clear  spring  instead 
of  within  a  smoky  tavern,  and  our  simple  meals  have  a  rel- 
ish an  epicure  could  never  attain.  Away  with  your  rail- 
roads and  steamboats  and  mail-coaches,  or  keep  them  for 
those  who  have  no  eye  but  for  the  sordid  interests  of  life ! 
With  my  knapsack  and  pilgrim-staff,  I  ask  not  their  aid. 
If  a  mind  and  soul  full  of  rapture  with  beauty,  a  frame  in 
glowing  and  vigorous  health  and  slumbers  unbroken  even 
by  dreams  are  blessings  any  one  would  attain,  let  him  pe- 
destrianize  it  through  Lower  Austria." 

I  have  never  been  so  strongly  and  constantly  reminded 
of  America  as  during  this  journey.  Perhaps  the  balmy 
season — the  same  in  which  I  last  looked  upon  the  dear 
scenes  of  home— may  have  its  effect,  but  there  is,  besides, 
a  richness  in  the  forests  and  waving  fields  of  grain,  a  wild 
luxuriance  over  every  landscape,  which  I  have  seen  no- 
where else  in  Europe.  The  large  farmhouses  buried  in 
orchards,  scattered  over  the  valleys,  add  to  the  effect. 
Everything  seems  to  speak  of  happiness  and  prosperity. 

We  were  met  one  morning  by  a  band  of  wandering 
Bohemian  gipsies — the  first  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  A 
young  woman  with  a  small  child  in  her  arms  came  directly 
up  to  me,  and,  looking  full  in  my  face  with  her  wild  black 
eyes,  said,  without  any  preface,  "  Yes,  he  too  has  met  with 
sorrow  and  trouble  already,  and  will  still  have  more.  But 
he  is  not  false ;  he  is  true  and  sincere,  and  will  also  meet 
with  good  luck."  She  said  she  could  tell  me  three  numbers 
with  which  I  should  buy  a  lottery-ticket  and  win  a  great 
prize.     I  told  her  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  lot- 


200  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

tery  and  would  buy  no  ticket,  but  she  persisted,  saying, 
"  Has  he  a  twenty-kreutzer  piece  ?  Will  he  give  it  ?  Lay 
it  in  his  hand  and  make  a  cross  over  it,  and  I  will  reveal 
the  numbers."  On  my  refusal  she  became  angry,  and  left 
me,  saying,  "  Let  him  take  care  !  The  third  day  something 
will  happen  to  him."  An  old  wrinkled  hag  made  the  same 
proposition  to  my  companion  with  no  better  success.  They 
reminded  me  strikingly  of  our  Indians ;  their  complexion 
is  a  dark  brown  and  their  eyes  and  hair  are  black  as  night. 
These  belonged  to  a  small  tribe  who  wander  through  the 
forests  of  Bohemia  and  support  themselves  by  cheating  and 
stealing. 

We  stopped  the  fourth  night  at  Enns,  a  small  city  on  the 
river  of  the  same  name  which  divides  Upper  from  Lower 
Austria.  After  leaving  the  beautiful  little  village  where 
we  passed  the  night  before,  the  road  ascended  one  of  those 
long  ranges  of  hills  which  stretch  off  from  the  Danube 
toward  the  Alps.  We  walked  for  miles  over  the  broad  and 
uneven  summit,  enjoying  the  enchanting  view  which  opened 
on  both  sides.  If  we  looked  to  the  right,  we  could  trace 
the  windings  of  the  Danube  for  twenty  miles,  his  current 
filled  with  green  wooded  islands  ;  white  cities  lie  at  the  foot 
of  the  hills,  which,  covered  to  the  summit  with  grain-fields 
and  vineyards,  extended  back  one  behind  another,  till  the 
farthest  were  lost  in  the  distance.  I  was  glad  we  had 
taken  the  way  from  Vienna  to  Linz  by  land,  for  from  the 
heights  we  had  a  view  of  the  whole  course  of  the  Danube, 
enjoying,  besides,  the  beauty  of  the  inland  vales  and  the 
far-off  Styrian  Alps.  From  the  hills  we  passed  over  we 
could  see  the  snowy  range  as  far  as  the  Alps  of  Salzburg ; 
some  of  them  seemed  robed  to  the  very  base  in  their  white 
mantles.  In  the  morning  the  glaciers  on  their  summit  glit- 
tered like  stars.  It  was  the  first  time  I  saw  the  sun  re- 
flected at  a  hundred  miles'  distance. 

On  descending,  we  came  into  a  garden-like  plain  over 
which  rose  the  towers  of  Enns,  built  by  the  rausom-money 


ROADSIDE  SHRINES.  201 

paid  to  Austria  for  the  deliverance  of  the  Lion-hearted 
Richard.  The  country  legends  say  that  St.  Florian  was 
thrown  into  the  river  hy  the  Romans  in  the  third  century 
with  a  millstone  around  his  neck,  which,  however,  held  him 
above  the  water  like  cork  until  he  had  finished  preaching 
them  a  sermon.  In  the  villages  we  often  saw  his  image 
painted  on  the  houses  in  the  act  of  pouring  a  pail  of  water 
on  a  burning  building,  with  the  inscription  beheath :  "  O 
holy  Florian,  pray  for  us !"  This  was  supposed  to  be  a 
charm  against  fire.  In  Upper  Austria  it  is  customary  to 
erect  a  shrine  on  the  road  wherever  an  accident  has  hap- 
pened, with  a  painting  and  description  of  it,  and  an  ad- 
monition to  all  passers-by  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  unfor- 
tunate person.  On  one  of  them,  for  instance,  was  a  cart 
with  a  wild  ox  which  a  man  was  holding  by  the  horns  ;  a 
woman  kneeling  by  the  wheels  appeared  to  be  drawing 
a  little  girl  by  the  feet  from  under  it,  and  the  inscription 
stated :  "  By  calling  on  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph,  the  girl 
was  happily  rescued."  Many  of  the  shrines  had  images 
which  the  people,  no  doubt,  in  their  ignorance  and  sim- 
plicity, considered  holy,  but  they  were  to  us  impious,  and 
almost  blasphemous. 

From  Enns  a  morning's  walk  brought  us  to  Linz.  The 
peasant-girls  in  their  broad  straw  hats  were  weeding  the 
young  wheat,  looking  as  cheerful  and  contented  as  the  larks 
that  sung  above  them.  A  mile  or  two  from  Linz  we  passed 
one  or  two  of  the  round  towers  belonging  to  the  new  fortifi- 
cations of  the  city.  As  walls  have  grown  out  of  fashion, 
Duke  Maximilian  substituted  an  invention  of  his  own.  The 
city  is  surrounded  by  thirty-two  towers,  one  to  three  miles 
distant  from  it,  and  so  placed  that  they  form  a  complete 
line  of  communication  and  defence.  They  are  sunk  in 
the  earth,  surrounded  with  a  ditch  and  embankments,  and 
each  is  capable  of  containing  ten  cannon  and  three  hundred 
men.  The  pointed  roofs  of  these  towers  are  seen  on  all  the 
hills  around.     We  were  obliged  to  give  up  our  passports  at 


202  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  barrier,  the  officer  telling  us  to  call  for  them  in  three 
hours  at  the  city  police-office.  We  spent  the  intervening  time 
very  agreeably  in  rambling  through  this  gay,  cheerful-look- 
ing town.  With  its  gilded  spires  and  ornamented  houses, 
with  their  green  lattice-blinds,  it  reminds  one  strongly  of 
Italy — or,  at  least,  of  what  Italy  is  said  to  be.  It  has  now 
quite  an  active  and  business-like  aspect,  occasioned  by  the 
steamboat  and  railroad  lines  which  connect  it  with  Vienna, 
Prague,  Ratisbon  and  Salzburg.  Although  we  had  not  ex- 
ceeded our  daily  allowance  by  more  than  a  few  kreutzers, 
we  found  that  twenty  days  would  be  hardly  sufficient  to 
accomplish  the  journey,  and  our  funds  must  therefore  be 
replenished.  Accordingly,  I  wrote  from  Linz  to  Frankfort, 
directing  a  small  sum  to  be  forwarded  to  Munich  ;  which 
city  we  hoped  to  reach  in  eight  days. 

We  took  the  horse-cars  at  Linz  for  Lambach,  seventeen 
miles  on  the  way  toward  Gmunden.  The  mountains  were 
covered  with  clouds  as  we  approached  them,  and  the  storms 
they  had  been  brewing  for  two  or  three  days  began  to  march 
down  on  the  plain.  They  had  nearly  reached  us  when  Ave 
crossed  the  Traun  and  arrived  at  Lambach,  a  small  city 
built  upon  a  hill.  We  left  the  next  day  at  noon,  and  on 
ascending  the  hill  after  crossing  the  Traun  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  the  portrait  on  the  Traunstein  of  which  the 
old  landlord  told  us.  I  saw  it  at  the  first  glance ;  certainly 
it  is  a  most  remarkable  freak  of  nature.  The  rough  back 
of  the  mountain  forms  the  exact  profile  of  the  human  coun- 
tenance, as  if  regularly  hewn  out  of  the  rock.  What  is  still 
more  singular,  it  is  said  to  be  a  correct  portrait  of  the  un- 
fortunate Louis  XVI.  The  landlord  said  it  was  immedi- 
ately recognized  by  all  Frenchmen.  The  road  followed  the 
course  of  the  Traun,  whose  green  waters  roared  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  glen  below  us;  we  walked  for  several  miles 
through  a  fine  forest  through  whose  openings  we  caught 
glimpses  of  the  mountains  we  longed  to  reach. 

The  river  roared  at  last  somewhat  louder,  and  on  looking 


THE  UNKNOWN  STUDENT.  203 

down  the  bank  I  saw  rocks  and  rapids,  and  a  few  houses 
built  on  the  edge  of  the  stream.  Thinking  it  must  be  near 
the  fall,  we  went  down  the  path,  and,  lo !  on  crossing  a  little 
wooden  bridge,  the  whole  affair  burst  in  sight.  Judge  of 
our  surprise  at  finding  a  fall  of  fifteen  feet,  after  we  had 
been  led  to  expect  a  tremendous  leap  of  forty  or  fifty  with 
all  the  accompaniment  of  rocks  and  precipices.  Of  course 
the  whole  descent  of  the  river  at  the  place  was  much  greater, 
and  there  were  some  romantic  cascades  over  the  rocks  which 
blocked  its  course.  Its  greatest  beauty  consisted  in  the  color 
of  the  water — the  brilliant  green  of  the  waves  being  broken 
into  foam  of  the  most  dazzling  white — and  the  great  force 
with  which  it  is  thrown  below. 

The  Traunstein  grew  higher  as  we  approached,  presenting 
the  same  profile  till  we  had  nearly  reached  Gmunden. 
From  the  green  upland  meadows  above  the  town  the  view 
of  the  mountain-range  was  glorious,  and  I  could  easily  con- 
ceive the  effect  of  the  Unknown  Student's  appeal  to  the 
people  to  fight  for  those  free  hills.  I  think  it  is  Howitt  who 
relates  the  incident — one  of  the  most  romantic  in  German 
history.  Count  Pappenheim  led  his  forces  here  in  the  year 
1626  to  suppress  a  revolution  of  the  people  of  the  whole 
Salzburg  region,  who  had  risen  against  an  invasion  of  their 
rights  by  the  Austrian  government.  The  battle  which  took 
place  on  these  meadows  was  about  being  decided  in  favor 
of  the  oppressors,  when  a  young  man  clad  as  a  student  sud- 
denly appeared  and  addressed  the  people,  pointing  to  the 
Alps  above  them  and  the  sweet  lake  below,  and  asking  if 
that  land  should  not  be  free.  The  effect  was  electrical. 
They  returned  to  the  charge  and  drove  back  the  troops  of 
Pappenheim,  who  were  about  taking  to  flight,  when  the  un- 
known leader  fell  mortally  wounded.  This  struck  a  sudden 
panic  through  his  followers,  and  the  Austrians,  turning 
again,  gained  a  complete  victory.  But  the  name  of  the 
brave  student  is  unknown,  his  deed  unsung  by  his  country's 
bards  and  almost  forgotten. 


204  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE   UNKNOWN   STUDENT. 

Ha  !  spears  on  Gmunden's  meadows  green, 

And  banners  on  the  wood-crowned  height  I 
Rank  after  rank,  their  helmets'  sheen 

Sends  back  the  morning  light. 
"Where  late  the  mountain-maiden  sang 
The  battle-trumpet's  brazen  clang 

Vibrates  along  the  air, 
And  wild  dragoons  wheel  o'er  the  plain, 
Trampling  to  earth  the  yellow  grain, 
From  which  no  more  the  merry  swain 

His  harvest-sheaves  shall  bear. 

The  eagle,  in  his  sweep  at  morn 

To  meet  the  monarch-sun  on  high, 
Heard  the  unwonted  warrior's  horn 

Peal  faintly  up  the  sky  ; 
He  saw  the  foemen  moving  slow 
In  serried  legions  far  below 

Against  that  peasant-band 
Who  dared  to  break  the  tyrant's  thrall 
And  by  the  sword  of  Austria  fall, 
Or  keep  the  ancient  right  of  all, 

Held  by  their  mountain-land. 

They  came  to  meet  that  mail-clad  host 

From  glen  and  wood  and  ripening  field  ; 
A  brave,  stout  arm  each  man  could  boast — 

A  soul  unused  to  yield. 
They  met!  A  shout  prolonged  and  loud 
Went  hovering  upward  with  the  cloud 

That  closed  around  them  dun; 
Blade  upon  blade  unceasing  clashed, 
Spears  in  the  onset  shivering  crashed, 
And  the  red  glare  of  cannon  flashed 

Athwart  the  smoky  sun. 


THE  UNKNOWN  STUDENT.  205 

The  mountain-warriors  wavered  back, 

Borne  down  by  myriads  of  the  foe 
Like  pines  before  the  torrent's  track 

"When  spring  has  warmed  the  snow. 
Shall  Faith  and  Freedom  vainly  call, 
And  Gmunden's  warrior-herdsmen  fall 

On  the  red  field  in  vain  ? 
No !    From  the  throng  that  back  retired 
A  student-boy  sprang  forth  inspired, 
And  while  his  words  their  bosoms  fired 

Led  on  the  charge  again : 

"  And  thus  your  free  arms  would  ye  give 

So  tamely  to  a  tyrant's  band, 
And  with  the  hearts  of  vassals  live 

In  this  your  chainless  land  ? 
The  emerald  lake  is  spread  below, 
And  tower  above  the  hills  of  snow; 

Here  field  and  forest  lie; 
This  land  so  glorious  and  so  free — 
Say,  shall  it  crushed  and  trodden  be? 
Say,  would  ye  rather  bend  the  knee 

Than  for  its  freedom  die? 

"  Look  !    Yonder  stand  in  midday's  glare 

The  everlasting  Alps  of  snow, 
And  from  their  peaks  a  purer  air 

Breathes  over  the  vales  below  : 
The  Traunstein's  brow  is  bent  in  pride; 
He  brooks  no  craven  on  his  side : 

Would  ye  be  fettered,  then  ? 
There  lifts  the  Sonnenstein  his  head, 
There  chafes  the  Traun  his  rocky  bed, 
And  Aurach's  lovely  vale  is  spread  : 

Look  on  them,  and  be  men  ! 

"  Let,  like  a  trumpet's  sound  of  fire, 

These  stir  your  souls  to  manhood's  part — 

The  glory  of  the  Alps  inspire 
Each  yet  unconquered  heart ; 

For  through  their  unpolluted  air 

Soars  fresher  up  the  grateful  prayer 
From  freemen,  unto  God. 


206  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

A  blessing  on  those  mountains  old  ! 
On  to  the  combat,  brethren  bold  ! 
Strike,  that  ye  free  the  valleys  hold 
Where  free  your  fathers  trod !" 

And,  like  a  mighty  storm  that  tears 

The  icy  avalanche  from  its  bed, 
They  rushed  against  th'  opposing  spears, 

The  student  at  their  head. 
The  bands  of  Austria  fought  in  vain  : 
A  bloodier  harvest  heaped  the  plain 

At  every  charge  they  made ; 
Each  herdsman  was  a  hero  then ; 
The  mountain-hunters  stood  like  men, 
And  echoed  from  the  farthest  glen 

The  clash  of  blade  on  blade. 

The  banner  in  the  student's  hand 

Waved  triumph  from  the  fight  before  ; 
What  terror  seized  the  conq'ring  band? 

It  fell  to  rise  no  more ! 
And  with  it  died  the  lofty  flame 
That  from  his  lips  in  lightning  came 

And  burned  upon  their  own. 
Dread  Pappenheim  led  back  the  foe, 
The  mountain-peasants  yielded  slow, 
And  plain  above  and  lake  below 

Were  red  when  evening  shone. 

Now  many  a  year  has  passed  away 

Since  battle's  blast  rolled  o'er  the  plain  ; 
The  Alps  are  bright  in  morning's  ray, 

The  Traunstein  smiles  again. 
But  underneath  the  flowery  sod 
By  happy  peasant-children  trod 

A  hero's  ashes  lay. 
O'er  him  no  grateful  nation  wept, 
Fame  of  his  deed  no  record  kept, 
And  dull  Forgetfulness  hath  swept 

His  very  name  away. 

In  many  a  grave  by  poets  sung 
There  falls  to  dust  a  lofty  brow, 


EBENSEE.  207 


But  he  alone,  the  brave  and  young, 

Sleeps  there  forgotten  now. 
The  Alps  upon  that  field  look  down 
Which  won  his  hright  and  brief  renown 

Beside  the  lake's  green  shore ; 
Still  wears  the  land  a  tyrant's  chain, 
Still  bondmen  tread  the  battle-plain, 
Called  by  his  glorious  soul  in  vain 

To  win  their  rights  of  yore. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE   AUSTRIAN   ALPS. 


It  was  nearly  dark  -when  we  came  to  the  end  of  the 
plain  and  looked  on  the  city  at  our  feet  and  the  lovely  lake 
that  lost  itself  in  the  mountains  before  us.  We  were  early 
on  board  the  steamboat  next  morning,  with  a  cloudless  sky 
above  us  and  a  snow-crested  alp  beckoning  on  from  the  end 
of  the  lake.  The  water  was  of  the  most  beautiful  green 
hue,  the  morning  light  colored  the  peaks  around  with  pur- 
ple and  a  misty  veil  rolled  up  the  rocks  of  the  Traunstein. 
We  stood  on  the  prow  and  enjoyed  to  the  fullest  extent  the 
enchanting  scenery.  The  white  houses  of  Gmunden  sank 
down  to  the  water's  edge  like  a  flock  of  ducks ;  halfway 
we  passed  Castle  Ort,  on  a  rock  in  the  lake  whose  sum- 
mit is  covered  with  trees. 

As  we  neared  the  other  extremity  the  mountains  became 
steeper  and  loftier;  there  was  no  path  along  their  wild 
sides,  nor  even  a  fisher's  hut  nestled  at  their  feet,  and  the 
snow  filled  the  ravines  more  than  halfway  from  the  summit. 
An  hour  and  a  quarter  brought  us  to  Ebensee,  at  the  head 
of  the  lake,  where  we  landed  and  plodded  on  toward  Ischl, 
following  the  Traun  up  a  narrow  valley  whose  mountain- 
walls  shut  out  more  than  half  the  sky.     They  are  covered 


208  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

with  forests,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  entirely  by  the 
woodmen  who  fell  the  mountain-pines  and  float  the  timber- 
rafts  down  to  the  Danube.  The  steeps  are  marked  with 
white  lines  where  the  trees  have  been  rolled — or,  rather, 
thrown — from  the  summit.  Often  they  descend  several 
miles  over  rocks  and  precipices  where  the  least  deviation 
from  the  track  would  dash  them  in  a  thousand  pieces.  This 
generally  takes  place  in  the  winter  when  the  sides  are  cov- 
ered with  snow  and  ice.  It  must  be  a  dangerous  business, 
for  there  are  many  crosses  by  the  wayside  where  the  pic- 
tures represent  persons  accidentally  killed  by  the  trees  ;  an 
additional  painting  represents  them  as  burning  in  the  flames 
of  purgatory,  and  the  pious  traveller  is  requested  to  pray 
an  Ave  or  a  Paternoster  for  the  repose  of  their  souls. 

On  we  went  up  the  valley  of  the  Traun,  between  moun- 
tains five  and  six  thousand  feet  high,  through  scenes  con- 
stantly changing  and  constantly  grand,  for  three  or  four 
hours.  Finally  the  hills  opened,  disclosing  a  little  triangu- 
lar valley  whose  base  was  formed  by  a  mighty  mountain 
covered  with  clouds.  Through  the  two  side-angles  came 
the  Traun  and  his  tributary  the  Ischl,  while  the  little  town 
of  Ischl  lay  in  the  centre.  Within  a  few  years  this  has  be- 
come a  very  fashionable  bathing-place,  and  the  influx  of 
rich  visitors — which  in  the  summer  sometimes  amounts  to 
two  thousand — has  entirely  destroyed  the  primitive  sim- 
plicity the  inhabitants  originally  possessed.  From  Ischl 
we  took  a  road  through  the  forests  to  St.  Wolfgang,  on  the 
lake  of  the  same  name.  The  last  part  of  the  way  led 
along  the  banks  of  the  lake,  disclosing  some  delicious 
views.  These  Alpine  lakes  surpass  any  scenery  I  have  yet 
seen.  The  water  is  of  the  most  beautiful  green,  like  a 
sheet  of  molten  beryl,  and  the  cloud-piercing  mountains 
that  encompass  them  shut  out  the  sun  for  nearly  half  the 
day.  St.  Wolfgang  is  a  lovely  village  in  a  cool  and  quiet 
nook  at  the  foot  of  the  Schaf  berg.  The  houses  are  built  in 
the  picturesque  Swiss  style,  with  flat,  projecting  roofs  and 


THE  SCHAFBERG.  209 

ornamental  balconies,  and  the  people  are  the  very  picture 
of  neatness  and  cheerfulness. 

We  started  next  morning  to  ascend  the  Schaf  berg,  which 
is  called  the  Righi  of  the  Austrian  Switzerland.  It  is 
somewhat  higher  than  its  Swiss  namesake,  and  commands 
a  prospect  scarcely  less  extensive  or  grand.  We  followed 
a  footpath  through  the  thick  forest  by  the  side  of  a  roaring 
torrent.  The  morning  mist  still  covered  the  lake,  but  the 
white  summits  of  the  Salzburg  and  Noric  Alps,  opposite 
us,  rose  above  it  and  stood  pure  and  bright  in  the  upper 
air.  We  passed  a  little  mill  and  one  or  two  cottages,  and 
then  wound  round  one  of  the  lesser  heights  into  a  deep 
ravine,  down  in  whose  dark  shadow  we  sometimes  heard 
the  axe  and  saw  of  the  mountain-woodmen.  Finally  the 
path  disappeared  altogether  under  a  mass  of  logs  and  rocks, 
which  appeared  to  have  been  whirled  together  by  a  sudden 
flood.  We  deliberated  what  to  do.  The  summit  rose  sev- 
eral thousand  feet  above  us,  almost  precipitously  steep,  but 
we  did  not  like  to  turn  back,  and  there  was  still  a  hope  of 
meeting  with  the  path  again.  Clambering  over  the  ruins 
and  rubbish,  we  pulled  ourselves  by  the  limbs  of  trees  up  a 
steep  ascent  and  descended  again  to  the  stream.  We  here 
saw  the  ravine  was  closed  by  a  wall  of  rock  and  our  only 
chance  was  to  cross  to  the  west  side  of  the  mountain,  where 
the  ascent  seemed  somewhat  easier.  A  couple  of  mountain- 
maidens  whom  Ave  fortunately  met  carrying  home  grass  for 
their  goats  told  us  the  mountain  could  be  ascended  on  that 
side  by  one  who  could  climb  well,  laying  a  strong  emphasis 
on  the  word.  The  very  doubt  implied  in  this  expression 
was  enough  to  decide  us ;  so  we  began  the  work.  And 
work  it  was,  too.  The  side  was  very  steep,  the  trees  all 
leaned  downward,  and  we  slipped  at  every  step  on  the  dry 
leaves  and  grass.  After  making  a  short  distance  this  way 
with  the  greatest  labor  we  came  to  the  track  of  an  ava- 
lanche which  had  swept  away  the  trees  and  earth.  Here 
the  rock  had  been  worn  rough  by  torrents,  but  by  using 

14 


210  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

both  hands  and  feet  we  clomb  directly  up  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  sometimes  dragging  ourselves  up  by  the  branches 
of  trees  where  the  rocks  were  smooth.  After  half  an  hour 
of  such  work  we  came  above  the  forests,  on  the  bare  side 
of  the  mountain.  The  summit  was  far  above  us,  and  so 
steep  that  our  limbs  involuntarily  shrunk  from  the  task  of 
climbing.  The  side  ran  up  at  an  angle  of  nearly  sixty 
degrees,  and  the  least  slip  threw  us  flat  on  our  faces.  We 
had  to  use  both  hand  and  foot,  and  were  obliged  to  rest 
every  few  minutes  to  recover  breath.  Crimson-flowered 
moss  and  bright  blue  gentians  covered  the  rocks,  and  I 
filled  my  books  with  blossoms  for  friends  at  home. 

Up  and  up  for  what  seemed  an  age  we  clambered.  So 
steep  was  it  that  the  least  rocky  projection  hid  my  friend 
from  sight,  as  he  was  coming  up  below  me.  I  let  stones 
roll  sometimes,  which  went  down,  down,  almost  like  a 
cannon-ball,  till  I  could  see  them  no  more.  At  length  we 
reached  the  region  of  dwarf  pines,  which  was  even  more 
difficult  to  pass  through.  Although  the  mountain  was  not 
so  steep,  this  forest,  centuries  old,  reached  no  higher  than 
our  breasts,  and  the  trees  leaned  downward  ;  so  that  we 
were  obliged  to  take  hold  of  the  tops  of  those  above  us  and 
drag  ourselves  up  through  the  others.  Here  and  there  lay 
large  patches  of  snow ;  we  sat  down  in  the  glowing  June 
sun,  and  bathed  our  hands  and  faces  in  it.  Finally  the  sky 
became  bluer  and  broader,  the  clouds  seemed  nearer,  and  a 
few  more  steps  through  the  bushes  brought  us  to  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain,  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  a  thousand 
feet  deep  whose  bottom  stood  in  a  vast  field  of  snow. 

We  lay  down  on  the  heather,  exhausted  by  five  hours' 
incessant  toil,  and  drank  in  like  a  refreshing  draught  the 
sublimity  of  the  scene.  The  green  lakes  of  the  Salzburg 
Alps  lay  far  below  us,  and  the  whole  southern  horizon  was 
filled  with  the  mighty  range  of  the  Styrian  and  Noric  Alps, 
their  summits  of  never-melting  snow  mingling  and  blend- 
ing with  the  clouds.     On  the  other  side  the  mountains  of 


A  FATIGUING  DESCENT.  211 

Salzburg  lifted  their  ridgy  backs  from  the  plains  of  Bavaria, 
and  the  Chiem  lake  lay  spread  out  in  the  blue  distance.  A 
line  of  mist  far  to  the  north  betrayed  the  path  of  the  Dan- 
ube, and  beyond  it  we  could  barely  trace  the  outline  of  the 
Bohemian  mountains.  With  a  glass  the  spires  of  Munich, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  distant*  can  be  seen.  It  was 
a  view  whose  grandeur  I  can  never  forget.  In  that  dome 
of  the  cloud  we  seemed  to  breathe  a  purer  air  than  that  of 
earth. 

After  an  hour  or  two  we  began  to  think  of  descending, 
as  the  path  was  yet  to  be  found.  The  summit,  which  was 
a  mile  or  more  in  length,  extended  farther  westward,  and 
by  climbing  over  the  dwarf  pines  for  some  time  we  saw  a 
little  wooden  house  above  us.  It  stood  near  the  highest 
part  of  the  peak,  and  two  or  three  men  were  engaged  in  re- 
pairing it  as  a  shelter  for  travellers.  They  pointed  out  the 
path  which  went  down  on  the  side  toward  St.  Gilgen,  and 
we  began  descending.  The  mountain  on  this  side  is  much 
less  steep,  but  the  descent  is  fatiguing  enough.  The  path 
led  along  the  side  of  a  glen  where  mountain-goats  were 
grazing,  and  farther  down  we  saw  cattle  feeding  on  the  lit- 
tle spots  of  verdure  which  lay  in  the  forest.  My  knees  be- 
came so  weak  from  this  continued  descent  that  they  would 
scarcely  support  me,  but  we  were  three  hours,  partly  walk- 
ing and  partly  running  down,  before  we  reached  the  bottom. 
Half  an  hour's  Avalk  around  the  head  of  the  St.  Wolfgang 
See  brought  us  to  the  little  village  of  St.  Gilgen. 

The  valley  of  St.  Gilgen  lies  like  a  little  paradise  between 
the  mountains.  Lovely  green  fields  and  woods  slope  grad- 
ually from  the  mountain  behind  to  the  still  greener  lake 
spread  out  before  it  in  whose  bosom  the  white  Alps  are 
mirrored.  Its  picturesque  cottages  cluster  around  the  neat 
church  with  its  lofty  spire,  and  the  simple  inhabitants  have 
countenances  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  the  blue  sky  above 
them.  We  breathed  an  air  of  poetry.  The  Arcadian  sim- 
plicity of  the   people,  the  pastoral   beauty   of  the  fields 


212  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

around  and  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains  which  shut  it 
out  from  the  world  realized  my  ideas  of  a  dwelling-place 
where,  with  a  few  kindred  spirits,  the  bliss  of  Eden  might 
almost  be  restored. 

We  stopped  there  two  or  three  hours  to  relieve  our  hun- 
ger and  fatigue.  My  boots  had  suffered  severely  in  our 
mountain-adventure,  and  I  called  at  a  shoemaker's  cottage 
to  get  them  repaired.  I  sat  down  and  talked  for  half  an 
hour  with  the  family.  The  man  and  his  wife  spoke  of  the 
delightful  scenery  around  them,  and  expressed  themselves 
with  correctness,  and  even  elegance.  They  were  much 
pleased  that  I  admired  their  village  so  greatly,  and  related 
everything  which  they  supposed  could  interest  me.  As  I 
rose  to  go  my  head  nearly  touched  the  ceiling,  which  was 
very  low.  The  man  exclaimed :  "Ach,  Gott !  how  tall !" 
I  told  him  the  people  were  all  tall  in  our  country  ;  he  then 
asked  where  I  came  from,  and  I  had  no  sooner  said  "Amer- 
ica" than  he  threw  up  his  hands  and  uttered  an  ejacula- 
tion of  the  greatest  surprise.  His  wife  observed  that  "  it 
was  wonderful  how  far  man  was  permitted  to  travel."  They 
wished  me  a  prosperous  journey  and  a  safe  return  home. 

St.  Gilgen  was  also  interesting  to  me  from  that  beautiful 
chapter  in  Hyperion — "  Footsteps  of  Angels ;"  and  on  pass- 
ing the  church  on  my  way  back  to  the  inn  I  entered  the 
graveyard  mentioned  in  it.  The  green  turf  grows  thickly 
over  the  rows  of  mounds,  with  here  and  there  a  rose  planted 
by  the  hand  of  affection,  and  the  white  crosses  were  hung 
with  wreaths,  some  of  which  had  been  freshly  laid  on.  Be- 
hind the  church,  under  the  shade  of  a  tree,  stood  a  small 
chapel.  I  opened  the  unfastened  door  and  entered.  The 
afternoon  sun  shone  through  the  side  window,  and  all  was 
still  around.  A  little  shrine  adorned  with  flowers  stood  at 
the  other  end,  and  there  were  two  tablets  on  the  wall  to 
persons  who  slumbered  beneath.  I  approached  these  and 
read  on  one  of  them  with  feelings  not  easily  described, 
"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past — it  comes  not  again ; 


SALZBURG  VALLEY.  213 

wisely  improve  the  present — it  is  thine ;  and  go  forward  to 
meet  the  shadowy  future  without  fear  and  with  a  manly 
heart."  This,  then,  was  the  spot  where  Paul  Flemming 
came  in  loneliness  and  sorrow  to  muse  over  what  he  had 
lost,  and  these  were  the  words  whose  truth  and  eloquence 
strengthened  and  consoled  him,  "  as  if  the  unknown  tenant 
of  the  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust  and  spoken  those 
words  of  consolation  his  soul  needed."  I  sat  down  and 
mused  a  long  time,  for  there  was  something  in  the  silent 
holiness  of  the  spot  that  impressed  me  more  than  I  could 
well  describe. 

We  reached  a  little  village  on  the  Fuschel  See  the  same 
evening,  and  set  off  the  next  morning  for  Salzburg.  The 
day  was  hot,  and  we  walked  slowly;  so  that  it  was  not  till 
two  o'clock  that  we  saw  the  castellated  rocks  on  the  side 
of  the  Gaissberg  guarding  the  entrance  to  the  valley  of 
Salzburg.  A  short  distance  farther  the  whole  glorious  pan- 
orama was  spread  out  below  us.  From  the  height  on  which 
we  stood  we  looked  directly  on  the  summit  of  the  Capuchin 
Mountain,  which  hid  part  of  the  city  from  sight;  the  double 
peak  of  the  Staufen  rose  opposite,  and  a  heavy  storm  was 
raging  along  the  Alpine  heights  around  it,  while  the  lovely 
valley  lay  in  sunshine  below,  threaded  by  the  bright  cur- 
rent of  the  Salza.  As  we  descended  and  passed  around  the 
foot  of  the  hill  the  Untersberg  came  in  sight,  whose  broad 
summits  lift  themselves  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  plain. 
The  legend  says  that  Charlemagne  and  his  warriors  sit  in 
its  subterraneous  caverns  in  complete  armor,  and  that  they 
will  arise  and  come  forth  again  when  Germany  recovers  her 
former  power  and  glory. 

I  wish  I  could  convey  in  words  some  idea  of  the  eleva- 
tion of  spirit  experienced  while  looking  on  these  eternal 
mountains.  They  fill  the  soul  with  a  sensation  of  power 
and  grandeur  which  frees  it  a  while  from  the  cramps  and 
fetters  of  common  life.  It  rises  and  expands  to  the  level 
of  their  sublimity  till  its  thoughts  stand  solemnly  aloft,  like 


214  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

their  summits  piercing  the  free  heaven.  Their  dazzling  and 
imperishable  beauty  is  to  the  mind  an  image  of  its  own  en- 
during existence.  When  I  stand  upon  some  snowy  summit 
the  invisible  apex  of  that  mighty  pyramid,  there  seems  a 
majesty  in  my  weak  will  which  might  defy  the  elements. 
This  sense  of  power,  inspired  by  a  silent  sympathy  with  the 
forms  of  nature,  is  beautifully  described— as  shown  in  the 
free,  unconscious  instincts  of  childhood— by  the  poet 
Uhland  in  his  ballad  of  "The  Mountain-Boy."  I  have 
attempted  a  translation : 

THE   MOUNTAIN-BOY. 

A  herd-boy  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
I  see  the  castles  all  below. 
The  sunbeam  here  is  earliest  cast 
And  by  my  side  it  lingers  last: 

I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 

The  mother-house  of  streams  is  here : 
I  drink  them  in  their  cradles  clear; 
From  out  tfie  rock  they  foam  below : 
I  spring  to  catch  them  as  they  go. 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 

To  me  belongs  the  mountain's  bound, 
Where  gathering  tempests  march  around  ; 
But,  though  from  north  and  south  they  shout, 
Above  them  still  my  song  rings  out : 
"  I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain  !" 

Below  me  clouds  and  thunders  move  ; 
I  stand  amid  the  blue  above; 
I  shout  to  them  with  fearless  breast : 
«'  Go !  leave  my  father's  house  in  rest ! 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain !" 

And  when  the  loud  bell  shakes  the  spires 
And  flame  aloft  the  signal-fires, 
I  go  below  and  join  the  throng 
And  swing  my  sword  and  sing  my  song : 
"  I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain !" 


THE  PINCH  OF  POVERTY.  215 

Salzburg  lies  on  both  sides  of  the  Salza,  hemmed  in  on 
either  hand  by  precipitous  mountains.  A  large  fortress 
overlooks  it  on  the  south  from  the  summit  of  a  perpendic- 
ular rock  against  which  the  houses  in  that  part  of  the  city 
are  built.  The  streets  are  narrow  and  crooked,  but  the 
newer  part  contains  many  open  squares  adorned  with  hand- 
some fountains.  The  variety  of  costume  among  the  people 
is  very  interesting.  The  inhabitants  of  the  salt  district  have 
a  peculiar  dress.  The  women  wear  round  fur  caps  with 
little  wings  of  gauze  at  the  side.  I  saw  other  women  with 
headdresses  of  gold  or  silver  filigree,  something  in  shape 
like  a  Roman  helmet,  with  a  projection  at  the  back  of  the 
head  a  foot  long.  The  most  interesting  objects  in  Salzburg 
to  us  were  the  house  of  Mozart,  in  which  the  composer  was 
born,  and  the  monument  lately  erected  to  him.  The  St. 
Peter's  church,  near  by,  contains  the  tomb  of  Haydn,  the 
great  composer,  and  the  church  of  St.  Sebastian  that  of  the 
renowned  Paracelsus,  who  was  also  a  native  of  Salzburg. 

Two  or  three  hours  sufficed  to  see  everything  of  interest 
in  the  city.  We  had  intended  to  go  farther  through  the 
Alps,  to  the  beautiful  vales  of  the  Tyrol,  but  our  time  was 
getting  short;  our  boots,  which  are  the  pedestrian's  sole 
dependence,  began  to  show  symptoms  of  wearing  out,  and 
our  expenses  among  the  lakes  and  mountains  of  Upper 
Austria  left  us  but  two  florins  apiece ;  so  we  reluctantly 
turned  our  backs  upon  the  snowy  hills  and  set  out  for  Mu- 
nich, ninety  miles  distant.  After  passing  the  night  at  Saal- 
bruck,  on  the  banks  of  the  stream  which  separates  the  two 
kingdoms,  we  entered  Bavaria  next  morning.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  glad  to  leave  Austria,  although  within  her 
bounds  I  had  passed  scenes  whose  beauty  will  long  haunt 
me,  and  met  with  many  honest,  friendly  hearts  among  her 
people.  We  noticed  a  change  as  soon  as  we  had  crossed  the 
border.  The  roads  were  neater  and  handsomer,  and  the 
country-people  greeted  us  in  going  by  with  a  friendly  cheer- 
fulness that  made  us  feel  half  at  home.     The  houses  are 


216  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

built  in  the  picturesque  Swiss  fashion,  their  balconies  often 
ornamented  with  curious  figures  carved  in  wood.  Many  of 
them,  where  they  are  situated  remote  from  a  church,  have 
a  little  bell  on  the  roof,  which  they  ring  for  morning  and 
evening  prayers ;  we  often  heard  these  simple  monitors 
sounding  from  the  cottages  as  we  passed  by. 

The  next  night  we  stopped  at  the  little  village  of  Stein, 
famous  in  former  times  for  its  robber-knight  Hans  von  Stein. 
The  ruins  of  his  castle  stand  on  the  rock  above,  and  the  cav- 
erns hewn  in  the  sides  of  the  precipice,  where  he  used  to 
confine  his  prisoners,  are  still  visible.  Walking  on  through 
a  pleasant,  well-cultivated  country,  we  came  to  Wasserburg, 
on  the  Inn.  The  situation  of  the  city  is  peculiar.  The  Inn 
has  gradually  worn  his  channel  deeper  in  the  sandy  soil ; 
so  that  he  now  flows  at  the  bottom  of  a  glen,  a  hundred  feet 
below  the  plains  around.  Wasserburg  lies  in  a  basin  formed 
by  the  change  of  the  current,  which  flows  around  it  like  a 
horseshoe,  leaving  only  a  narrow  neck  of  land  which  con- 
nects it  with  the  country  above. 

We  left  the  little  village  where  we  were  quartered  for  the 
night,  and  took  a  footpath  which  led  across  the  country  to 
the  field  of  Hohenlinden,  about  six  miles  distant.  The 
name  had  been  familiar  to  me  from  childhood,  and  my  love 
for  Campbell,  with  the  recollection  of  the  school-exhibitions 
where  "  On  Linden  when  the  sun  was  low  "  had  been  so  often 
declaimed,  induced  me  to  make  the  excursion  to  it.  We 
traversed  a  large  forest  belonging  to  the  king  of  Bavaria, 
and  came  out  on  a  plain  covered  with  grain-fields  and 
bounded  on  the  right  by  a  semicircle  of  low  hills.  Over  the 
fields,  about  two  miles  distant,  a  tall,  minaret-like  spire  rose 
from  a  small  cluster  of  houses,  and  this  was  Hohenlinden. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  been  expecting  something  more. 
The  "  hills  of  blood-stained  snow  "  are  very  small  hills  in- 
deed, and  the  "  Isar,  rolling  rapidly,"  is  several  miles  off; 
it  was  the  spot,  however,  and  we  recited  Campbell's  poem, 
of  course,  and  brought  away  a  few  wild-flowers  as  memorials. 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED.  217 

There  is  nc  monument  or  any  other  token  of  the  battle,  and 
the  people  seem  to  endeavor  to  forget  the  scene  of  Moreau's 
victory  and  their  defeat. 

From  a  hill  twelve  miles  off  we  had  our  first  view  of  the 
spires  of  Munich,  looking  like  distant  ships  over  the  sealike 
plain.  They  kept  in  sight  till  we  arrived  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  after  a  walk  of  more  than  thirty  miles.  We 
crossed  the  rapid  Isar  on  three  bridges,  entered  the  magnifi- 
cent Isar  Gate,  and  were  soon  comfortably  quartered  in  the 
heart  of  Munich. 

Entering  the  city  without  knowing  a  single  soul  within 
it,  we  made  within  a  few  minutes  an  agreeable  acquaintance. 
After  we  passed  the  Isar  Gate,  we  began  looking  for  a  de- 
cent inn,  for  the  day's  walk  was  very  fatiguing.  Presently 
a  young  man  who  had  been  watching  us  for  some  time  came 
up  and  said  if  we  would  allow  him  he  would  conduct  us  to 
a  good  lodging-place.  Finding  we  were  strangers,  he  ex- 
pressed the  greatest  regret  that  he  had  not  time  to  go  with 
us  every  day  around  the  city.  Our  surprise  and  delight  at 
the  splendor  of  Munich,  he  said,  would  more  than  repay  him 
for  the  trouble.  In  his  anxiety  to  show  us  something  he 
took  us  some  distance  out  of  the  way  (although  it  Avas  grow- 
ing dark  and  we  were  very  tired)  to  see  the  palace  and  the 
theatre,  with  its  front  of  rich  frescos. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

MUNICH. 


June  14. 
I  thought  I  had  seen  everything  in  Vienna  that  could 
excite  admiration  or  gratify  fancy;  here  I  have  my  former 
sensation  to  live  over  again  in  an  augmented  degree.  It  is 
well  I  was  at  first  somewhat  prepared  by  our  previous  travel ; 
otherwise,  the  glare  and  splendor  of  wealth  and  art  in  this 


218  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

German  Athens  might  blind  me  to  the  beauties  of  the  cities 
we  shall  yet  visit.  I  have  been  walking  in  a  dream  where 
the  fairy-tales  of  boyhood  were  realized  and  the  golden  and 
jewelled  halls  of  the  Eastern  genii  rose  glittering  around 
me,  "  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more."  All  I  had  conceived 
of  Oriental  magnificence,  all  descriptions  of  the  splen- 
dor of  kingly  halls  and  palaces,  fall  far  short  of  what  I 
here  see.  Where  shall  I  begin  to  describe  the  crowd  of 
splendid  edifices  that  line  its  streets,  or  how  give  an  idea  of 
the  profusion  of  paintings  and  statues,  of  marble,  jasper  and 
gold? 

Art  has  done  everything  for  Munich.  It  lies  on  a  large, 
flat  plain  sixteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea  and  continu- 
ally exposed  to  the  cold  winds  from  the  Alps.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  the  present  century  it  was  but  a  third-rate  city, 
and  was  rarely  visited  by  foreigners ;  since  that  time  its 
population  and  limits  have  been  doubled  and  magnificent 
edifices  in  every  style  of  architecture  erected,  rendering  it 
scarcely  secondary  in  this  respect  to  any  capital  in  Europe. 
Every  art  that  wealth  or  taste  could  devise  seems  to  have 
been  spent  in  its  decoration.  Broad,  spacious  streets  and 
squares  have  been  laid  out,  churches,  halls  and  colleges 
erected,  and  schools  of  painting  and  sculpture  established 
which  draw  artists  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  All  this 
was  principally  brought  about  by  the  taste  of  the  present 
king,  Ludwig  I.,  who  began  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago, 
when  he  was  crown-prince,  to  collect  the  best  German 
artists  around  him  and  form  plans  for  the  execution  of  his 
grand  design.  He  can  boast  of  having  done  more  for  the 
arts  than  any  other  living  monarch ;  and  if  he  had  accom- 
plished it  all  without  oppressing  his  people,  he  would  de- 
serve an  immortality  of  fame. 

Now,  if  you  have  nothing  else  to  do,  let  us  take  a  stroll 
down  the  Ludwigstrasse.  As  we  pass  the  Theatiner  church 
with  its  dome  and  towers  the  broad  street  opens  before  us, 
stretching  away  to  the  north  between  rows  of  magnificent 


LUDWIG'S  KIRCHE.  219 

buildings.  Just  at  this  southern  end  is  the  Schlusshalle,  an 
open  temple  of  white  marble  terminating  the  avenue.  To 
the  right  of  us  extend  the  arcades,  with  the  trees  of  the 
royal  garden  peeping  above  them  ;  on  the  left  is  the  spacious 
concert-building  of  the  Odeon  and  the  palace  of  the  duke 
of  Leuchtenberg,  son  of  Eugene  Beauharnais.  Passing 
through  a  row  of  palace-like  private  buildings,  we  come  to 
the  army  department,  on  the  right— a  neat  and  tasteful 
building  of  white  sandstone.  Beside  it  stands  the  library, 
which  possesses  the  first  special  claim  on  our  admiration. 
With  its  splendid  front  of*  five  hundred  and  eighteen  feet, 
the  yellowish-brown  cement  with  which  the  body  is  covered 
making  an  agreeable  contrast  with  the  dark-red  window- 
arches  and  cornices,  and  the  statues  of  Homer,  Hippocrates, 
Thucydides  and  Aristotle  guarding  the  portal,  is  it  not  a 
worthy  receptacle  for  the  treasures  of  ancient  and  modern 
lore  which  its  halls  contain  ? 

Nearly  opposite  stands  the  institute  for  the  blind,  a  plain 
but  large  building  of  dark-red  brick  covered  with  cement, 
and,  farther,  the  Ludwig's  kirche,  or  church  of  St.  Louis. 
How  lightly  the  two  square  towers  of  gray  marble  lift  their 
network  of  sculpture!    And  what  a  novel  and  beautiful 
effect  is  produced  by  uniting  the  Byzantine  style  of  archi- 
tecture to  the  form  of  the  Latin  cross !     Over  the  arched 
portal  stand  marble  statues  by  Schwanthaler,  and  the  roof 
of  brilliant  tiles  worked  into  mosaic  looks  like  a  rich  Tur- 
key carpet  covering  the  whole.     We  must  enter  to  get  an 
idea  of  the  splendor  of  this  church.    Instead  of  the  pointed 
arch  which  one  would  expect  to  see  meeting  above  his  head, 
the  lofty  pillars  on  each  side  bear  an  unbroken  semicircular 
vault  which  is  painted  a  brilliant  blue  and  spangled  with 
silver  stars.  These  pillars,  and  the  little  arches  above,  which 
spring  from  them,  are  painted  in  an  arabesque  style  with 
gold  and  brilliant  colors,  and  each  side-chapel  is  a  perfect 
casket  of  richness  and  elegance.     The  windows  are  of  sil- 
vered glass,  through  which  the  light  glimmers  softly  on  the 


220  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

splendor  within.  The  whole  end  of  the  church  behind  the 
high  altar  is  taken  up  with  Cornelius's  celebrated  fresco- 
painting  of  the  "  Last  Judgment " — the  largest  painting  in 
the  world — and  the  circular  dome  in  the  centre  of  the  cross 
contains  groups  of  martyrs,  prophets,  saints  and  kings  painted 
in  fresco  on  a  ground  of  gold.  The  work  of  Cornelius  has 
been  greatly  praised  for  sublimity  of  design  and  beauty  of 
execution  by  many  acknowledged  judges;  I  was  disap- 
pointed in  it,  but  the  fault  lay,  most  probably,  in  me,  and 
not  in  the  painting.  The  richness  and  elegance  of  the 
church  took  me  all  "  aback ;"  it*  was  so  entirely  different 
from  anything  I  had  seen  that  it  was  difficult  to  decide 
whether  I  was  most  charmed  by  its  novelty  or  its  beauty. 
Still,  as  a  building  designed  to  excite  feelings  of  worship,  it 
seems  to  me  inappropriate.  A  vast,  dim  cathedral  would  be 
far  preferable ;  the  devout,  humble  heart  cannot  feel  at  home 
amid  such  glare  and  brightness. 

As  we  leave  the  church  and  walk  farther  on,  the  street 
expands  suddenly  into  a  broad  square.  One  side  is  formed 
by  the  new  university  building  and  the  other  by  the  royal 
seminary,  both  displaying  in  their  architecture  new  forms 
of  the  graceful  Byzantine  school  which  the  architects  of 
Munich  have  adapted  in  a  striking  manner  to  so  many 
varied  purposes.  On  each  side  stands  a  splendid  colossal 
fountain  of  bronze,  throwing  up  a  great  mass  of  water, 
which  falls  in  a  triple  cataract  to  the  marble  basin  below. 
A  short  distance  beyond  this  square  the  Ludwigstrasse  ter- 
minates. It  is  said  the  end  will  be  closed  by  a  magnificent 
gate  in  a  style  to  correspond  with  the  unequalled  avenue  to 
which  it  will  give  entrance.  To  one  standing  at  the  south- 
ern end  it  would  form  a  proper  termination  to  the  grand 
vista.  Before  we  leave  turn  around  and  glance  back,  down 
this  street,  which  extends  for  half  a  mile  between  such 
buildings  as  we  have  just  viewed,  and  tell  me  if  it  is  not 
something  of  which  a  city  and  a  king  may  boast  to  have 
created  all  this  within  less  than  twenty  years. 


NOBLE  STATUARY.  221 

"We  went  one  morning  to  see  the  collection  of  paintings 
formerly  belonging  to  Eugene  Beauharnais,  who  was  broth- 
er-in-law to  the  present  king  of  Bavaria,  in  the  palace  of 
his  son,  the  duke  of  Leuchtenberg.  The  first  hall  contains 
works  principally  by  French  artists,  among  which  are  two 
by  Gerard — a  beautiful  portrait  of  Josephine,  and  the  blind 
Belisarius  carrying  his  dead  companion.  The  boy's  head 
lies  on  the  old  man's  shoulder;  but  for  the  livid  paleness 
of  his  limbs,  he  would  seem  to  be  only  asleep,  while  a  deep 
and  settled  sorrow  marks  the  venerable  features  of  the  un- 
fortunate emperor.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  are  six 
pieces  of  statuary,  among  which  Canova's  world-renowned 
group  of  the  Graces  at  once  attracts  the  eye.  There  is  also 
a  kneeling  Magdalen,  lovely  in  her  woe,  by  the  same  sculp- 
tor, and  a  very  touching  work  of  Schadow  representing  a 
shepherd-boy  tenderly  binding  his  sash  around  a  lamb 
which  he  has  accidentally  wounded  with  his  arrow. 

We  have  since  seen  in  the  St.  Michael's  church  the  mon- 
ument to  Eugene  Beauharnais  from  the  chisel  of  Thorwald- 
sen.  The  noble,  manly  figure  of  the  son  of  Josephine  is 
represented  in  the  Roman  mantle,  with  his  helmet  and  sword 
lying  on  the  ground  by  him.  On  one  side  sits  History 
writing  on  a  tablet ;  on  the  other  stand  the  two  brother-an- 
gels Death  and  Immortality.  They  lean  lovingly  together, 
with  arms  around  each  other,  but  the  sweet  countenance  of 
Death  has  a  cast  of  sorrow  as  he  stands  with  inverted  torch 
and  a  wreath  of  poppies  among  his  clustering  locks.  Im- 
mortality, crowned  with  never-fading  flowers,  looks  upward 
with  a  smile  of  triumph,  and  holds  in  one  hand  his  blazing 
torch.  It  is  a  beautiful  idea,  and  Thorwaldsen  has  made 
the  marble  eloquent  with  feeling. 

The  inside  of  the  square  formed  by  the  arcades  and  the 
New  Residence  is  filled  with  noble  old  trees  which  in  sum- 
mer make  a  leafy  roof  over  the  pleasant  walks.  In  the 
middle  stands  a  grotto  ornamented  with  rough  pebbles  and 
shells,  and  only  needing  a  fountain  to  make  it  a  perfect  hall 


222  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  Neptune.  Passing  through  the  northern  arcade,  one 
comes  into  the  magnificent  park  called  the  English  Garden, 
which  extends  more  than  four  miles  along  the  bank  of  the 
Isar,  several  branches  of  whose  milky  current  wander 
through  it  and  form  one  or  two  pretty  cascades.  It  is  a 
beautiful  alternation  of  forest  and  meadow,  and  has  all  the 
richness  and  garden-like  luxuriance  of  English  scenery. 
Winding  walks  lead  along  the  Isar  or  through  the  wood  of 
venerable  oaks,  and  sometimes  a  lawn  of  half  a  mile  in 
length,  with  a  picturesque  temple  at  its  farther  end,  comes 
in  sight  through  the  trees.  I  was  better  pleased  with  this 
park  than  with  the  Prater  in  Vienna.  Its  paths  are  always 
filled  with  persons  enjoying  the  change  from  the  dusty 
streets  to  its  quiet  and  cool  retirement. 

The  New  Residence  is  not  only  one  of  the  wonders  of 
Munich,  but  of  the  world.  Although  commenced  in  1826 
and  carried  on  constantly  since  that  time  by  a  number  of 
architects,  sculptors  and  painters,  it  is  not  yet  finished  ;  if 
art  were  not  inexhaustible,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
what  more  could  be  added.  The  north  side  of  the  Max 
Joseph  Platz  is  taken  up  by  its  front  of  four  hundred  and 
thirty  feet,  which  was  nine  years  in  building,  under  the  di- 
rection of  the  architect  Klenze.  The  exterior  is  copied 
after  the  Palazzo  Pitti,  in  Florence.  The  building  is  of 
light-brown  sandstone,  and  combines  an  elegance,  and  even 
splendor,  with  the  most  chaste  and  classic  style.  The  north- 
ern front,  which  faces  on  the  royal  garden,  is  now  nearly 
finished.  It  has  the  enormous  length  of  eight  hundred 
feet ;  in  the  middle  is  a  portico  of  ten  Ionic  columns.  In- 
stead of  supporting  a  triangular  facade,  each  pillar  stands 
separate  and  bears  a  marble  statue  from  the  chisel  of 
Schwanthaler. 

The  interior  of  the  building  does  not  disappoint  the  prom- 
ise of  the  outside.  It  is  open  every  afternoon,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  king,  for  the  inspection  of  visitors  ;  fortunately 
for  us,  His  Majesty  is  at  present  on  a  journey  through  his 


ORIENTAL  MAGNIFICENCE.  223 

provinces  on  the  Rhine.     We  went  early  to  the  waiting- 
hall,  where  several  travellers  were  already  assemhlcd,  and 
at  four  o'clock  were  admitted  into  the  newer  part  of  the 
palace,  containing  the  throne-hall,  ball-room,  etc.     On  en- 
tering the  first  hall,  designed  for  the  lackeys  and  royal  ser- 
vants, Ave  were  all  obliged  to  thrust  our  feet  into  cloth  slip- 
pers to  walk  over  the  polished  mosaic  floor.     The  walls  are 
of  scagliola  marble  and  the  ceilings  ornamented  brilliantly 
in  fresco.     The  second  hall,  also  for  servants,  gives  tokens 
of  increasing  splendor  in  the  richer  decorations  of  the  walls 
and  the  more  elaborate  mosaic  of  the  floor.     We  next  en- 
tered the  receiving-saloon,  in  which  the  court-marshal  re- 
ceives the  guests.    The  ceiling  is  of  arabesque  sculpture  pro- 
fusely painted  and  gilded.     Passing  through  a  little  cab- 
inet, we  entered  the  great  dancing-saloon.     Its  floor  is  the 
richest  mosaic  of  wood  of  different  colors,  the  sides  are  of 
polished  scagliola  marble,  and  the  ceiling  a  dazzling  mix- 
ture of  sculpture,  painting  and  gold.     At  one  end  is  a  gal- 
lery for  the  orchestra,  supported  by  six  columns  of  varie- 
gated marble,  above  which  are  six  dancing  nymphs  painted 
so  beautifully  that  they  appear  like  living  creatures.    Every 
decoration  which  could  be  devised  has  been  used  to  heighten 
its  splendor,  and  the  artists  appear  to  have  made  free  use 
of  the  Arabian  Nights  in  forming  the  plan. 

We  entered  next  two  smaller  rooms  containing  the  por- 
traits of  beautiful  women,  principally  from  the  German  no- 
bility. I  gave  the  preference  to  the  daughter  of  Marco 
Bozzaris,  now  maid  of  honor  to  the  queen  of  Greece.  She 
had  a  wild  dark  eye,  a  beautiful  proud  lip,  and  her  rich 
black  hair  rolled  in  glossy  waves  down  her  neck  from  under 
the  red  Grecian  cap  stuck  jauntily  on  the  side  of  her  head. 
She  wore  a  scarf  and  close-fitting  vest  embroidered  with 
gold,  and  there  was  a  free,  lofty  spirit  in  her  countenance 
worthy  the  name  she  bore.  These  pictures  form  a  gallery 
of  beauty  whose  equal  cannot  easily  be  found. 

Returning  to  the  dancing-hall,  we  entered  the  dining- 


224  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

saloon,  also  called  the  Hall  of  Charlemagne.  Each  wall 
has  two  magnificent  fresco-paintings  of  very  large  size  rep- 
resenting some  event  in  the  life  of  the  great  emperor,  be- 
ginning with  his  anointing  at  St.  Denis  as  a  boy  of  twelve 
years  and  ending  with  his  coronation  by  Leo  III.  A  sec- 
ond dining-saloon,  the  Hall  of  Barbarossa,  adjoins  the  first. 
It  has  also  eight  frescos,  as  the  former,  representing  the 
principal  events  in  the  life  of  Frederick  Barbarossa.  Then 
comes  a  third,  called  the  Hapsburg  Hall,  with  four  grand 
paintings  from  the  life  of  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg  and  a  tri- 
umphal procession  along  the  frieze  showing  the  improve- 
ment in  the  arts  and  sciences  which  was  accomplished  under 
his  reign.  The  drawing,  composition  and  rich  tone  of  col- 
oring of  these  glorious  frescos  are  scarcely  excelled  by  any 
in  existence. 

Finally  we  entered  the  Hall  of  the  Throne.  Here  the 
encaustic  decoration  so  plentifully  employed  in  the  other 
rooms  is  dropped,  and  an  effect  even  more  brilliant  obtained 
by  the  united  use  of  marble  and  gold.  Picture  a  long  hall 
with  a  floor  of  polished  marble,  on  each  side  twelve  columns 
of  white  marble  with  gilded  capitals,  between  which  stand 
colossal  statues  of  gold.  At  the  other  end  is  the  throne  of 
gold  and  crimson,  with  gorgeous  hangings  of  crimson  vel- 
vet. The  twelve  statues  in  the  hall  are  called  the  "  Wit- 
telsbach  Ancestors,"  and  represent  renowned  members  of 
the  house  of  Wittelsbach  from  which  the  present  family  of 
Bavaria  is  descended.  They  were  cast  in  bronze  by  Stigl- 
maier  after  the  models  of  Schwanthaler,  and  then  com- 
pletely covered  with  a  coating  of  gold ;  so  that  they  resem- 
ble solid  golden  statues.  The  value  of  the  precious  metal 
on  each  one  is  about  three  thousand  dollars,  as  they  are  nine 
feet  in  height.  What  would  the  politicians  who  made  such 
an  outcry  about  the  new  papering  of  the  President's  house 
say  to  such  a  palace  as  this  ? 

Going  back  to  the  starting-point,  we  went  to  the  other 
wing  of  the  edifice  and  joined  the  party  who  came  to  visit 


AN  ATMOSPHERE  OF  POETRY.  225 

the  apartments  of  the  king.  Here  we  were  led  through 
two  or  three  rooms  appropriated  to  the  servants,  with  all 
the  splendor  of  marble  doors,  floors  of  mosaic  and  frescoed 
ceilings.  From  these  Ave  entered  the  king's  dwelling.  The 
entrance-halls  are  decorated  with  paintings  of  the  Argo- 
nauts and  illustrations  of  the  hymns  of  Hesiod  after  draw- 
ings by  Schwanthaler.  Then  came  the  service-hall,  con- 
taining frescos  illustrating  Homer  by  Schnorr,  and  the 
throne-hall,  with  Schwanthaler's  bas-reliefs  of  the  songs  of 
Pindar  on  a  ground  of  gold.  The  throne  stands  under  a 
splendid  crimson  canopy.  The  dining-room  with  its  floor 
of  polished  wood  is  filled  with  illustrations  of  the  songs  of 
Anacreon.  To  these  follow  the  dressing-room,  with  twenty- 
seven  illustrations  of  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes,  and  the 
sleeping-chamber  with  frescos  after  the  poems  of  Theocri- 
tus, and  two  beautiful  bas-reliefs  representing  angels  bear- 
ing children  to  heaven.  It  is  no  wonder  the  king  writes 
poetry,  when  he  breathes,  eats,  and  even  sleeps,  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  it. 

We  were  shown  the  rooms  for  the  private  parties  of  the 
court,  the  schoolroom,  with  scenes  from  the  life  of  the  an- 
cient Greeks,  and  then  conducted  down  the  marble  stair- 
cases to  the  lower  story,  which  is  to  contain  Schnorr's  mag- 
nificent frescos  of  the  Nibehmgen  Lied — the  old  German 
Iliad.  Two  halls  are  at  present  finished  ;  the  first  has  the 
figure  of  the  author,  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  those 
of  Chriemhilde,  Brunhilde,  Siegfried  and  the  other  per- 
sonages of  the  poem,  and  the  second — called  the  marriage- 
hall — contains  the  marriage  of  Chriemhilde  aud  Siegfried 
and  the  triumphal  entry  of  Siegfried  into  Worms. 

Adjoining  the  New  Residence  on  the  east  is  the  royal 
chapel,  lately  finished  in  the  Byzantine  style  under  the  di- 
rection of  Klenze.  To  enter  it  is  like  stepping  into  a 
casket  of  jewels.  The  sides  are  formed  by  a  double  range 
of  arches,  the  windows  being  so  far  back  as  to  be  almost 
out  of  sight ;  so  that  the  eye  falls  on  nothing  but  painting 

15 


226  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

and  gold.  The  lower  row  of  arches  is  of  alternate  green 
and  purple  marble  beautifully  polished,  but  the  upper,  as 
well  as  the  small  chancel  behind  the  high  altar,  is  entirely 
covered  with  fresco-paintings  on  a  ground  of  gold.  The 
richness  and  splendor  of  the  whole  church  is  absolutely  in- 
credible. Even  after  one  has  seen  the  Ludwig's  kirche  and 
the  residence  itself  it  excites  astonishment.  I  was  surprised, 
however,  to  find  at  this  age  a  painting  on  the  wall  behind 
the  altar,  representing  the  Almighty.  It  seems  as  if  man's 
presumption  has  no  end.  The  simple  altar  of  Athens  with 
its  inscription  "  To  the  Unknown  God  "  was  more  truly  rev- 
erent than  this. 

As  I  sat  down  a  while  under  one  of  the  arches  a  poor 
woman  came  in  carrying  a  heavy  basket,  and,  going  to  the 
steps  which  led  up  to  the  altar,  knelt  down  and  prayed, 
spreading  her  arms  out  in  the  form  of  a  cross.  Then,  after 
stooping  and  kissing  the  first  step,  she  dragged  herself  with 
her  knees  upon  it,  and  commenced  praying  again  with  out- 
spread arms.  This  she  continued  till  she  had  climbed  them 
all,  which  occupied  some  time ;  then,  as  if  she  had  fulfilled 
a  vow,  she  turned  and  departed.  She  was  undoubtedly 
sincere  in  her  piety,  but  it  made  me  sad  to  look  upon  such 
deluded  superstition. 

We  visited  yesterday  morning  the  Glyptothek,  the  finest 
collection  of  ancient  sculpture  except  that  in  the  British 
Museum  I  have  yet  seen,  and  perhaps  elsewhere  unsurpassed 
north  of  the  Alps.  The  building,  which  was  finished  by 
Klenze  in  1830,  has  an  Ionic  portico  of  white  marble,  with 
a  group  of  allegorical  figures  representing  Sculpture  and 
the  kindred  arts.  On  each  side  of  the  portico  there  are 
three  niches  in  the  front,  containing  on  one  side  Pericles, 
Phidias  and  Vulcan ;  on  the  other,  Hadrian,  Prometheus 
and  Dredalus.  The  whole  building  forms  a  hollow  square 
and  is  lighted  entirely  from  the  inner  side.  There  are  in 
all  twelve  halls,  each  containing  the  remains  of  a  particular 
era  in  the  art,  and  arranged  according  to  time  ;  so  that,  be- 


ANCIENT  GRECIAN  SCULPTURES.  227 

ginning  with  the  clumsy  productions  of  the  ancient  Egypt- 
ians, one  passes  through  the  different  stages  of  Grecian  art, 
afterward  that  of  Rome,  and  finally  ends  with  the  works 
of  our  own  times — the  almost  Grecian  perfection  of  Thor- 
waldsen  and  Canova.  These  halls  are  worthy  to  hold  such 
treasures,  and  what  more  could  be  said  of  them?  The 
floors  are  of  marble  mosaic,  the  sides  of  green  or  purple 
scagliola  and  the  vaulted  ceilings  covered  with  raised  orna- 
ments on  a  ground  of  gold.  No  two  are  alike  in  color  and 
decoration,  and  yet  there  is  a  unity  of  taste  and  design  in 
the  whole  which  renders  the  variety  delightful. 

From  the  Egyptian  Hall  we  enter  one  containing  the 
oldest  remains  of  Grecian  sculpture,  before  the  artists  won 
power  to  mould  the  marble  to  their  conceptions.  Then 
follow  the  celebrated  Egina  marbles,  from  the  temple  of 
Jupiter  Panhellenius,  on  the  island  of  Egina.  They  for- 
merly stood  in  the  two  porticoes,  the  one  group  representing 
the  fight  for  the  body  of  Laomedon,  the  other  the  struggle 
for  the  dead  Patroclus.  The  parts  wanting  have  been 
admirably  restored  by  Thorwaldsen.  They  form  almost 
the  only  existing  specimens  of  the  Eginetan  school.  Passing 
through  the  Apollo  Hall,  we  enter  the  large  Hall  of  Bac- 
chus, in  which  the  progress  of  the  art  is  distinctly  apparent. 
A  satyr  lying  asleep  on  a  goatskin  which  he  has  thrown 
over  a  rock  is  believed  to  be  the  work  of  Praxiteles.  The 
relaxation  of  the  figure  and  perfect  repose  of  every  limb  is 
wonderful.  The  countenance  has  traits  of  individuality 
which  led  me  to  think  it  might  have  been  a  portrait,  perhaps 
of  some  rude  country  swain. 

In  the  Hall  of  Niobe,  which  follows,  is  one  of  the  most 
perfect  works  that  ever  grew  into  life  under  a  sculptor's 
chisel.  Mutilated  as  it  is,  without  head  and  arms,  I  never 
saw  a  more  expressive  figure.  Ilioneus,  the  son  of  Niobe,  is 
represented  as  kneeling,  apparently  in  the  moment  in  which 
Apollo  raises  his  arrow,  and  there  is  an  imploring  supplica- 
tion in  his  attitude  which  is  touching  in  the  highest  degree. 


228  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

His  beautiful  young  limbs  seem  to  shrink  involuntarily 
from  the  deadly  shaft ;  there  is  an  expression  of  prayer, 
almost  of  agony,  in  the  position  of  his  body.  It  should  be 
left  untouched.  No  head  could  be  added  which  would  equal 
that  one  pictures  to  himself  while  gazing  upon  it. 

The  Pinacothek  is  a  magnificent  building  of  yellow  sand- 
stone, five  hundred  and  thirty  feet  long,  containing  thirteen 
hundred  pictures  selected  with  great  care  from  the  whole 
private  collection  of  the  king,  which  amounts  to  nine  thou- 
sand. Above  the  cornice  on  the  southern  side  stand  twenty- 
five  colossal  statues  of  celebrated  painters  by  Schwanthaler. 
As  Ave  approached,  the  tall  bronze  door  was  opened  by  a 
servant  in  the  Bavarian  livery,  whose  size  harmonized  so 
well  with  the  giant  proportions  of  the  building  that  until  I 
stood  beside  him  and  could  mark  the  contrast  I  did  not 
notice  his  enormous  frame.  I  saw  then  that  he  must  be 
near  eight  feet  high  and  stout  in  proportion.  He  reminded 
me  of  the  great  "  Baver  of  Trient,"  in  Vienna.  The  Pina- 
cothek contains  the  most  complete  collection  of  works  by 
old  German  artists  anywhere  to  be  found.  There  are  in 
the  Hall  of  the  Spanish  Masters  half  a  dozen  of  Murillo's 
inimitable  beggar-groups.  It  was  a  relief,  after  looking 
upon  the  distressingly  stiff  figures  of  the  old  German  school, 
to  view  these  fresh,  natural  countenances.  One  little  black- 
eyed  boy  has  just  cut  a  slice  out  of  a  melon,  and  turns  with 
a  full  mouth  to  his  companion,  who  is  busy  eating  a  bunch 
of  grapes.  The  simple,  contented  expression  on  the  faces  of 
the  beggars  is  admirable.  I  thought  I  detected  in  a  beauti- 
ful child  with  dark  curly  locks  the  original  of  his  celebrated 
infant  St.  John.  I  was  much  interested  in  two  small  juven- 
ile works  of  Raphael  and  his  own  portrait.  The  latter  was 
taken,  most  probably,  after  he  became  known  as  a  painter. 
The  calm,  serious  smile  which  we  see  on  his  portrait  as  a 
boy  had  vanished,  and  the  thin  features  and  sunken  e"ye 
told  of  intense  mental  labor. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  buildings  now  in  the  course 


THE  ATELIER  OF  SCHWANTIIALER.  229 

of  erection  is  the  basilica,  or  church,  of  St.  Bonifacius.  It 
represents  another  form  of  the  Byzantine  style — a  kind  of 
double  edifice  a  little  like  a  North  River  steamboat  with  a 
two-story  cabin  on  deck.  The  inside  is  not  yet  finished, 
although  the  artists  have  been  at  work  on  it  for  six  years, 
but  we  heard  many  accounts  of  its  splendor,  which  is  said 
to  exceed  anything  that  has  been  yet  done  in  Munich.  We 
visited  to-day  the  atelier  of  Schwanthaler,  which  is  always 
open  to  strangers  The  sculptor  himself  was  not  there,  but 
five  or  six  of  his  scholars  were  at  work  in  the  rooms  build- 
ing up  clay  statues  after  his  models  and  working  out  bas- 
reliefs  in  frames.  We  saw  here  the  original  models  of  the 
statues  on  the  Pinacothek  and  the  "Wittelsbach  Ances- 
tors "  in  the  throne-hall  of  the  palace.  I  was  glad,  also,  to 
find  a  miniature  copy  in  plaster  of  the  Herrmannsschlacht, 
or  combat  of  the  old  German  hero  Herrmann  with  the  Ro- 
mans, from  the  frieze  of  the  Walhalla,  at  Ratisbon.  It  is 
one  of  Schwanthaler's  best  works.  Herrmann,  as  the  mid- 
dle figure,  is  represented  in  fight  with  the  Roman  general ; 
behind  him  the  warriors  are  rushing  on,  and  an  old  bard  is 
striking  the  chords  of  his  harp  to  inspire  them,  while  wo- 
men bind  up  the  wounds  of  the  fallen.  The  Roman  soldiers 
on  the  other  side  are  about  turning  in  confusion  to  fly.  It 
is  a  lofty  and  appropriate  subject  for  the  portico  of  a  build- 
ing containing  the  figures  of  the  men  Avho  have  labored  for 
the  glory  and  elevation  of  their  fatherland. 

Our  new-found  friend  came  to  visit  us  last  evening  and 
learn  our  impressions  of  Munich.  In  the  course  of  conver- 
sation we  surprised  him  by  revealing  the  name  of  our  coun- 
try. His  countenance  brightened  up,  and  he  asked  us  many 
questions  about  the  state  of  society  in  America.  In  return 
he  told  us  something  more  about  himself;  his  story  was 
simple,  but  it  interested  me.  His  father  was  a  merchant 
who,  having  been  ruined  by  unlucky  transactions,  died, 
leaving  a  numerous  family  without  the  means  of  support. 
His  children  were  obliged  to  commence  life  alone  and  un- 


230  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

aided,  which  in  a  country  where  labor  is  so  cheap  is  difficult 
and  disheartening.  Our  friend  chose  the  profession  of  a 
machinist,  which,  after  encountering  great  obstacles,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  learning,  and  now  supports  himself  as  a  common 
laborer.  But  his  position  in  this  respect  prevents  him  from 
occupying  that  station  in  society  for  which  he  is  intellectu- 
ally fitted.  His  own  words,  uttered  with  a  simple  pathos 
which  I  can  never  forget,  will  best  describe  how  painful 
this  must  be  to  a  sensitive  spirit.  "  I  tell  you  thus  frankly 
my  feelings,"  said  he,  "  because  I  know  you  will  understand 
me.  I  could  not  say  this  to  any  of  my  associates,  for  they 
would  not  comprehend  it,  and  they  would  say  I  am  proud, 
because  I  cannot  bring  my  soul  down  to  their  level.  I  am 
poor  and  have  but  little  to  subsist  upon ;  but  the  spirit  has 
needs  as  well  as  the  body,  and  I  feel  it  a  duty  and  a  desire 
to  satisfy  them  also.  When  I  am  with  any  of  my  common 
fellow-laborers,  what  do  I  gain  from  them?  Their  leisure- 
hours  are  spent  in  drinking  and  idle  amusement,  and  I  can- 
not join  them,  for  I  have  no  sympathy  with  such  things. 
To  mingle  with  those  above  me  would  be  impossible.  There- 
fore I  am  alone  ;  I  have  no  associate." 

I  have  gone  into  minute — and,  it  may  be,  tiresome — de- 
tail in  describing  some  of  the  edifices  of  Munich,  because 
it  seemed  the  only  way  in  which  I  could  give  an  idea  of 
their  wonderful  beauty.  It  is  true  that  in  copying  after 
the  manner  of  the  daguerreotype  there  is  danger  of  imitat- 
ing its  dulness  also,  but  I  trust  to  the  glitter  of  gold  and 
rich  paintings  for  a  little  brightness  in  the  picture.  We 
leave  to-morrow  morning,  having  received  the  sum  written 
for,  which,  to  our  surprise,  will  be  barely  sufficient  to  ena- 
ble us  to  reach  Heidelberg. 


AUGSBURG.  231 

CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THROUGH   WURTEMBERG   TO   HEIDELBERG. 

We  left  Munich  in  the  morning  train  for  Augsburg. 
Between  the  two  cities  extends  a  vast  unbroken  plain  ex- 
ceedingly barren  and  monotonous.  Here  and  there  is  a 
little  scrubby  woodland,  and  sometimes  we  passed  over  a 
muddy  stream  which  came  down  from  the  Alps.  The  land 
is  not  more  than  half  cultivated,  and  the  villages  are  small 
and  poor.  We  saw  many  of  the  peasants  at  their  stations 
in  their  gay  Sunday  dresses  ;  the  women  wore  short  gowns 
with  laced  bodices  of  gay  colors,  and  little  caps  on  the  top 
of  their  heads,  with  streamers  of  ribbons  three  feet  long. 

After  two  hours'  ride  we  saw  the  tall  towers  of  Augsburg, 
and  alighted  on  the  outside  of  the  wall.  The  deep  moat 
which  surrounds  the  city  is  all  grown  over  with  velvet  turf; 
the  towers  and  bastions  are  empty  and  desolate,  and  we 
passed  unchallenged  under  the  gloomy  archway.  Immedi- 
ately on  entering  the  city  signs  of  its  ancient  splendor  are 
apparent.  The  houses  are  old,  many  of  them  with  quaint, 
elaborately  carved  ornaments,  and  often  covered  with 
fresco-paintings.  These  generally  represent  some  scene 
from  the  Bible  history  encircled  with  arabesque  borders 
and  pious  maxims  in  illuminated  scrolls.  We  went  into 
the  old  Rathhaus,  whose  golden  hall  still  speaks  of  the  days 
of  Augsburg's  pride.  I  saw  in  the  basement  a  bronze  eagle 
weighing  sixteen  tons,  with  an  inscription  on  the  pedestal 
stating  that  it  was  cast  in  1606  and  formerly  stood  on  the 
top  of  an  old  public  building  since  torn  down.  In  front  of 
the  Rathhaus  is  a  fine  bronze  fountain  with  a  number  of 
figures  of  angels  and  tritons. 

The  same  afternoon,  we  left  Augsburg  for  Ulm.  Long, 
low  ranges  of  hills  running  from  the  Danube  stretched  far 
across  the  country,  and  between  them  lay  many  rich  green 


232  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

valleys.  We  passed,  occasionally,  large  villages,  perhaps 
as  old  as  the  times  of  the  crusaders,  and  looking  quite  pas- 
toral and  romantic  from  the  outside,  but  we  were  always 
glad  when  we  had  gone  through  them  and  into  the  clean 
country  again.  The  afternoon  of  the  second  day  we  came 
in  sight  of  the  fertile  plain  of  the  Danube.  Far,  far  to  the 
right  lay  the  field  of  Blenheim,  where  Marlborough  and  the 
prince  Eugene  conquered  the  united  French  and  Bavarian 
forces  and  decided  the  war  of  the  Spanish  Succession. 

We  determined  to  reach  Ulm  the  same  evening,  although 
a  heavy  storm  was  raging  along  the  distant  hills  of  Wur- 
temberg.  The  dark  mass  of  the  mighty  cathedral  rose  in 
the  distance  through  the  twilight — a  perfect  mountain  in 
comparison  with  the  little  houses  clustered  around  its  base. 
We  reached  New  Ulm  finally,  and  passed  over  the  heavy 
wooden  bridge  into  Wurtemberg  unchallenged  for  passport 
or  baggage.  I  thought  I  could  feel  a  difference  in  the  at- 
mosphere when  I  reached  the  other  side :  it  breathed  of  the 
freer  spirit  that  ruled  through  the  land.  The  Danube  is 
here  a  little  muddy  stream  hardly  as  large  as  my  native 
Brandywine,  and  a  traveller  who  sees  it  at  Ulm  for  the  first 
time  would  most  probably  be  disappointed.  It  is  not  until 
below  Vienna,  where  it  receives  the  Drave  and  Save,  that 
it  becomes  a  river  of  more  than  ordinary  magnitude. 

We  entered  Ulm,  as  I  have  already  said.  It  was  after 
nine  o'clock,  nearly  dark  and  beginning  to  rain ;  we  had 
walked  thirty-three  miles,  and  being,  of  course,  tired,  we 
entered  the  first  inn  we  saw.  But,  to  our  consternation,  it 
was  impossible  to  get  a  place  :  the  fair  had  just  commenced, 
and  the  inn  was  full  to  the  roof.  We  must  needs  hunt  another, 
and  then  another,  and  yet  another,  with  like  fate  at  each. 
It  grew  quite  dark,  the  rain  increased,  and  we  were  unac- 
quainted with  the  city.  I  grew  desperate,  and  at  last,  when 
we  had  stopped  at  the  eighth  inn  in  vain,  I  told  the  people 
we  must  have  lodgings,  for  it  was  impossible  we  should  walk 
around  in  the  rain  all  night.   Some  of  the  guests  interfering 


ULM  CATHEDRAL.  233 

in  our  favor,  the  hostess  finally  sent  a  servant  with  us  to  the 
first  hotel  in  the  city.  I  told  him  on  the  way  Ave  were  Ameri- 
cans, strangers  in  Ulm,  and  not  accustomed  to  sleeping  in 
the  streets.  "  Well,"  said  he.  "  I  will  go  before,  and  recom- 
mend you  to  the  landlord  of  the  Golden  Wheel."  I  knew 
not  what  magic  he  used,  but  in  half  an  hour  our  weary 
limbs  were  stretched  in  delightful  repose,  and  we  thanked 
Heaven  more  gratefully  than  ever  before  for  the  blessing 
of  a  good  bed. 

Next  morning  we  ran  about  through  the  booths  of  the 
fair,  and  gazed  up  from  all  sides  at  the  vast  cathedral. 
The  style  is  the  simplest  and  grandest  Gothic;  but  the 
t0Wer — which,  to  harmonize  with  the  body  of  the  church, 
should  be  five  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high — was  left  un- 
finished at  the  height  of  two  hundred  and  thirty-four  feet. 
I  could  not  enough  admire  the  grandeur  of  proportion  in 
the  great  building.  It  seemed  singular  that  the  little  race 
of  animals  who  swarmed  around  its  base  should  have  the 
power  to  conceive  or  execute  such  a  gigantic  work. 

There  is  an  immense  fortification  now  in  progress  of  erec- 
tion behind  Ulm.  It  leans  on  the  side  of  the  hill  which 
rises  from  the  Danube,  and  must  be  nearly  a  mile  in  length. 
Hundreds  of  laborers  are  at  work,  and,  from  the  appear- 
ance of  the  foundations,  many  years  will  be  required  to 
finish  it.  The  lofty  mountain-plain  which  Ave  afterward 
passed  over  for  eight  or  ten  miles  divides  the  waters  of  the 
Danube  from  the  Rhine.  Prom  the  heights  above  Ulm 
we  bade  adieu  to  the  far  misty  Alps  till  we  shall  see  them 
again  in  Switzerland.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  came  to  a 
lovely  green  valley  sunk  as  it  were  in  the  earth.  Around 
us  on  all  sides  stretched  the  bare,  lofty  plains,  but  the  val- 
ley lay  below,  its  steep  sides  covered  with  the  richest  forest. 
At  the  bottom  flowed  the  Fils.  Our  road  led  directly  down 
the  side ;  the  glen  spread  out  broader  as  we  advanced  and 
smiling  villages  stood  beside  the  stream.  A  short  distance 
before  reaching  Esslingen  we  came  upon  the  banks  of  the 


234  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Neckar,  whom  we  hailed  as  an  old  acquaintance,  although 
much  smaller  here  in  his  mountain-home  than  when  he 
sweeps  the  walls  of  Heidelberg. 

Delightful  Wurtemberg  !  Shall  I  ever  forget  thy  lovely 
green  vales  watered  by  the  classic  current  of  the  Neckar, 
or  thy  lofty  hills  covered  with  vineyards  and  waving  for- 
ests and  crowned  with  heavy  ruins  that  tell  many  a  tale  of 
Barbarossa  and  Duke  Ulric  and  Goetz  with  the  Iron  Hand  ? 
No !  Were  even  the  Suabian  hills  less  beautiful,  were  the 
Suabian  people  less  faithful  and  kind  and  true,  still  I  would 
love  the  land  for  the  great  spirits  it  has  produced;  still 
would  the  birthplace  of  Frederick  Schiller,  of  Uhland  and 
Hauff,  be  sacred.  I  do  not  wonder  Wurtemberg  can  boast 
such  glorious  poets.  Its  lovely  landscapes  seem  to  have 
been  made  expressly  for  the  cradle  of  Genius ;  amid  no 
other  scenes  could  his  infant  mind  catch  a  more  benign  in- 
spiration. Even  the  common  people  are  deeply  imbued 
with  a  poetic  feeling.  We  saw  it  in  their  friendly  greetings 
and  open  expressive  countenances  ;  it  is  shown  in  their  love 
for  their  beautiful  homes  and  the  rapture  and  reverence 
with  which  they  speak  of  their  country's  bards.  No  river 
in  the  world  equal  to  the  Neckar  in  size  flows  for  its  whole 
course  through  more  delightful  scenery  or  among  kinder 
and  happier  people. 

After  leaving  Esslingen,  wre  followed  its  banks  for  some 
time  at  the  foot  of  an  amphitheatre  of  hills  covered  to  the 
very  summit,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  vineyards. 
The  morning  was  cloudy  and  white  mis-it-wreaths  hung 
along  the  sides.  AVe  took  a  road  that  lead  over  the  top  of 
a  range,  and  on  arriving  at  the  summit  saw  all  at  once  the 
city  of  Stuttgard  lying  beneath  our  feet.  It  lay  in  a  basin 
encircled  by  mountains,  with  a  narrow  valley  opening  to 
the  south-east  and  running  off  between  the  hills  to  the 
Neckar.  The  situation  of  the  city  is  one  of  wonderful 
beauty,  and  even  after  seeing  Salzburg  I  could  not  but  be 
charmed  with  it. 


SCHILLER'S  STATUE.  235 

We  descended  the  mountain  and  entered  it.  I  inquired 
immediately  for  the  monument  of  Schiller,  for  there  was 
little  else  in  the  city  I  cared  to  see.  We  had  become  tired 
of  running  about  cities  hunting  this  or  that  old  church  or 
palace  which  perhaps  was  nothing  when  found.  Stuttgard 
has  neither  galleries,  ruins  nor  splendid  buildings  to  inter- 
est the  traveller,  but  it  has  Thorwaldsen's  statue  of  Schiller, 
calling  up,  at  the  same  time,  its  shame  and  its  glory. 
For  the  poet  in  his  youth  was  obliged  to  fly  from  this  very 
same  city — from  home  and  friends — to  escape  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  government  on  account  of  the  free  sentiments 
expressed  in  his  early  works.  We  found  the  statue  with- 
out much  difficulty.  It  stands  in  the  Schloss  Platz,  at  the 
southern  end  of  the  city,  in  an  unfavorable  situation  sur- 
rounded by  dark  old  buildings.  It  should  rather  be  placed 
aloft  on  a  mountain-summit,  in  the  pure,  free  air  of  heaven, 
braving  the  storm  and  the  tempest.  The  figure  is  fourteen 
feet  high  and  stands  on  a  pedestal  of  bronze  with  bas-re- 
liefs on  the  four  sides.  The  head,  crowned  with  a  laurel 
wreath,  is  inclined  as  if  in  deep  thought,  and  all  the  earn- 
est soul  is  seen  in  the  countenance.  Thorwaldsen  has 
copied  so  truly  the  expression  of  poetic  reverie  that  I 
waited,  half  expecting  he  would  raise  his  head  and  look 
around  him. 

As  we  passed  out  the  eastern  gate  the  workmen  were  busy 
near  the  city  making  an  embankment  for  the  new  railroad 
to  Heilbronn,  and  we  were  obliged  to  wade  through  half  a 
mile  of  mud.  Finally  the  road  turned  to  the  left  over  a 
mountain,  and  we  walked  on  in  the  rain,  regardless  of  the 
touching  entreaties  of  an  omnibus-driver  who  felt  a  great 
concern  for  our  health,  especially  as  he  had  two  empty  seats. 
There  is  a  peculiarly  agreeable  sensation  in  walking  in  a 
storm  when  the  winds  sweep  by  and  the  raindrops  rattle 
through  the  trees  and  the  dark  clouds  roll  past  just  above 
one's  head.  It  gives  a  dash  of  sublimity  to  the  most  com- 
mon scene.     If  the  rain  did  not  finally  soak  through  the 


236  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

boots,  and  if  one  did  not  lose  every  romantic  feeling  in  wet 
garments,  I  would  prefer  storm  to  sunshine  for  visiting 
some  kinds  of  scenery.  You  remember  Ave  saw  the  north 
coast  of  Ireland  and  the  Giant's  Causeway  in  stormy  weather 
— at  the  expense  of  being  completely  drenched,  it  is  true ; 
but  our  recollections  of  that  wild  day's  journey  are  as  vivid 
as  any  event  of  our  lives,  and  the  name  of  the  Giant's  Cause- 
way calls  up  a  series  of  pictures  as  terribly  sublime  as  any 
we  would  wish  to  behold. 

The  rain  at  last  did  come  down  a  little  too  hard  for  com- 
fort, and  we  were  quite  willing  to  take  shelter  when  we 
reached  Ludwigsburg.  This  is  here  called  a  new  city,  hav- 
ing been  laid  out  with  broad  streets  and  spacious  squares 
about  a  century  ago,  and  is  now  about  the  size  of  our  five- 
year-old  city  of  Milwaukee.  It  is  the  chief  military  station 
of  AVurtemberg,  and  has  a  splendid  castle  and  gardens  be- 
longing to  the  king.  A  few  miles  to  the  eastward  is  the 
little  village  where  Schiller  was  born.  It  is  said  the  house 
where  his  parents  lived  is  still  standing. 

It  was  not  the  weather  alone  which  prevented  our  mak- 
ing a  pilgrimage  to  it,  nor  was  it  alone  a  peculiar  fondness 
for  rain  which  induced  us  to  persist  in  walking  in  the  storm. 
Our  feeble  pockets,  if  they  could  have  raised  an  audible 
jingle,  would  have  told  another  tale.  Our  scanty  allow- 
ance was  dwindling  rapidly  away  in  spite  of  a  desperate 
system  of  economy.  We  left  Ulm  with  a  florin  and  a  half 
apiece — about  sixty  cents — to  wTalk  to  Heidelberg,  a  distance 
of  one  hundred  and  ten  miles.  It  was  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  and  this  was  almost  exhausted.  As  soon,  there- 
fore, as  the  rain  slackened  a  little,  we  started  again,  although 
the  roads  were  very  bad.  At  Betigheim,  where  we  passed 
the  night,  the  people  told  us  of  a  much  nearer  and  more 
beautiful  road  passing  through  the  Zabergau,  a  region 
famed  for  its  fertility  and  pastoral  beauty.  At  the  inn  we 
were  charged  higher  than  usual  for  a  bed ;  so  that  we  had 
but  thirteen  kreutzers  to  start  with  in  the  morning.     Our 


THE  ZABEKGAU.  237 

fare  that  day  was  a  little  bread  and  water.  We  walked 
steadily  on,  but,  owing  to  the  wet  roads,  made  only  thirty 
miles. 

A  more  delightful  region  than  the  Zabergau  I  have  sel- 
dom passed  through.  The  fields  were  full  of  rich,  heavy 
grain,  and  the  trees  had  a  luxuriance  of  foliage  that  re- 
minded me  of  the  vale  of  the  Jed,  in  Scotland.  Without  a 
single  hedge  or  fence  stood  the  long  sweep  of  hills  covered 
with  waving  fields  of  grain,  except  where  they  were  steep 
and  rocky  and  the  vineyard  terraces  rose  one  above  another. 
Sometimes  a  fine  old  forest  grew  along  the  summit  like  a 
mane  waving  back  from  the  curved  neck  of  a  steed,  and 
white  villages  lay  coiled  in  the  valleys  between.  A  line  of 
blue  mountains  always  closed  the  vista  on  looking  down 
one  of  these  long  valleys ;  occasionally  a  ruined  castle  with 
donjon-tower  was  seen  on  a  mountain  at  the  side,  making 
the  picture  complete.  As  we  lay  sometimes  on  the  hillside 
and  looked  on  one  of  those  sweet  vales,  we  were  astonished 
at  its  Arcadian  beauty.  The  meadows  were  as  smooth  as  a 
mirror,  and  there  seemed  to  be  scarcely  a  grass-blade  out 
of  place.  The  streams  wound  through  ("  snaked  themselves 
through"  is  the  German  expression)  with  a  subdued  ripple, 
as  if  they  feared  to  displace  a  pebble,  and  the  great  ash 
trees  which  stood  here  and  there  had  lined  each  of  their 
leaves  as  carefully  with  silver  and  turned  them  as  gracefully 
to  the  wind  as  if  they  were  making  their  toilettes  for  the 
gala-day  of  nature. 

That  evening  brought  us  into  the  dominions  of  Baden, 
within  five  hours'  walk  of  Heidelberg.  At  the  humblest 
inn  in  a  humble  village,  we  found  a  bed  which  we  could 
scarcely  pay  for,  leaving  a  kreutzer  or  two  for  breakfast. 

Soon  after  starting  the  next  morning  the  distant  Kaiser- 
stuhl  suddenly  emerged  from  the  mist,  with  the  high  tower 
on  its  summit  where  nearly  ten  months  before  we  sat  and 
looked  at  the  summits  of  the  Vosges  in  France,  with  all 
the  excitement  one  feels  on  entering  a  foreign  land.     Now 


238  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  scenery  around  that  same  Kaiser-stuhl  was  nearly  as 
familiar  to  us  as  that  of  our  own  homes.  Entering  the 
hills  again,  we  knew  by  the  blue  mountains  of  the  Oden- 
wald  that  we  were  approaching  the  Neckar.  At  length  we 
reached  the  last  height.  The  town  of  Neckargemund  lay 
before  us  on  the  steep  hillside,  and  the  mountains  on  either 
side  were  scarred  with  quarries  of  the  rich  red  sandstone  so 
much  used  in  building.  The  blocks  are  hewn  out  high  up 
on  the  mountain-side,  and  then  sent  rolling  and  sliding 
down  to  the  river,  where  they  are  laden  in  boats  and  floated 
down  with  the  current  to  the  distant  cities  of  the  Rhine. 

We  were  rejoiced,  on  turning  around  the  corner  of  a 
mountain,  to  see  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  the  road 
winding  up  through  the  forests  where  last  fall  our  Heidel- 
berg friends  accompanied  us  as  we  set  out  to  walk  to  Frank- 
fort through  the  Odenwald.  Many  causes  combined  to  ren- 
der it  a  glad  scene  to  us.  We  were  going  to  meet  our  com- 
rade again  after  a  separation  of  months ;  we  were  bringing 
an  eventful  journey  to  its  close  ;  and,  finally,  we  were  weak 
and  worn  out  from  fasting  and  the  labor  of  walking  in  the 
rain.  A  little  farther  we  saw  Kloster  Neuburg,  formerly 
an  old  convent,  and  remembered  how  we  used  to  look  at  it 
every  day  from  the  windows  of  our  room  on  the  Neckar, 
but  we  snouted  aloud  when  we  saw  at  last  the  well-known 
bridge  spanning  the  river  and  the  glorious  old  castle  lifting 
its  shattered  towers  from  the  side  of  the  mountain  above  us. 
I  always  felt  a  strong  attachment  to  this  matchless  ruin, 
and  as  I  beheld  it  again,  with  the  warm  sunshine  falling 
through  each  broken  arch,  the  wild  ivy  draping  its  desolate 
chambers,  it  seemed  to  smile  on  me  like  the  face  of  a  friend, 
and  I  confessed  I  had  seen  many  a  grander  scene,  but  few 
that  would  cling  to  the  memory  so  familiarly. 

While  we  were  in  Heidelberg  a  student  was  buried  by 
torchlight.  This  is  done  when  particular  honor  is  shown 
to  the  memory  of  the  departed  brother.  They  assembled 
at  dark  in  the  university  square,  each  with  a  blazing  pine 


BURIAL  OF  A  STUDENT.  239 

torch  three  feet  long,  and  formed  into  a  double  line.  Be- 
tween the  files  walked  at  short  distances  an  officer,  who  with 
his  sword,  broad  lace  collar  and  the  black-and-white  plumes 
in  his  cap  looked  like  a  cavalier  of  the  olden  time.  Per- 
sons with  torches  walked  on  each  side  of  the  hearse,  and 
the  band  played  a  lament  so  deeply  mournful  that  the  scene, 
notwithstanding  its  singularity,  was  very  sad  and  touching. 
The  thick  smoke  from  the  torches  filled  the  air,  and  a  lurid 
red  light  was  cast  over  the  hushed  crowds  in  the  streets  and 
streamed  into  the  dark  alleys.  The  Hauptstrasse  was  filled 
with  two  lines  of  flame  as  the  procession  passed  down  it. 
When  they  reached  the  extremity  of  the  city,  the  hearse 
went  on,  attended  with  torch-bearers,  to  the  cemetery,  some 
distance  farther,  and  the  students  turned  back,  running  and 
whirling  their  torches  in  mingled  confusion.  The  music 
struck  up  a  merry  march,  and  in  the  smoke  and  red  glare 
they  looked  like  a  company  of  mad  demons.  The  presence 
of  Death  awed  them  to  silence  for  a  while,  but  as  soon  as 
it  had  left  them  they  turned  relieved  to  revel  again,  and 
thought  no  more  of  the  lesson.  It  gave  me  a  painful  feel- 
ing to  see  them  rushing  so  wildly  and  disorderly  back. 
They  assembled  again  in  the  square,  and,  tossing  their 
torches  up  into  the  air,  cast  them  blazing  into  a  pile ;  while 
the  flame  and  black  smoke  rose  in  a  column  into  the  air 
they  sang  in  solemn  chorus  the  song  "  Gaudeamus  igitur" 
with  which  they  close  all  public  assemblies. 

I  shall  neglect  telling  how  we  left  Heidelberg  and  walked 
along  the  Bergstrasse  again — for  the  sixth  time ;  how  we 
passed  the  old  Melibochus  and  through  the  quiet  city  of 
Darmstadt;  how  we  watched  the  blue  summits  of  the  Tau- 
nus  rising  higher  and  higher  over  the  plain  as  a  new  land 
rises  from  the  sea  ;  and,  finally,  how  we  reached  at  last  the 
old  watch-tower  and  looked  down  on  the  valley  of  the  Main, 
clothed  in  the  bloom  and  verdure  of  summer,  with  the 
houses  and  spires  of  Frankfort  in  the  middle  of  the  well- 
known  panorama.     We  again  took  possession  of  our  old 


240  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rooms,  and,  having  to  wait  for  a  remittance  from  America, 
as  well  as  a  more  suitable  season  for  visiting  Italy,  we  sat 
down  to  a  month's  rest  and  study. 


CHAPTER     XXVIII. 

FREIBURG  AND  THE  BLACK  FOREST. 

Frankfort,  July  29,  1845. 
It  would  be  ingratitude  toward  the  old  city  in  which  I 
have  passed  so  many  pleasant  and  profitable  hours  to  leave 
it — perhaps  for  ever — without  a  few  words  of  farewell. 
How  often  will  the  old  bridge  with  its  view  up  the  Main, 
over  the  houses  of  Oberrad,  to  the  far  mountains  of  the 
Odenwald,  rise  freshly  and  distinctly  in  memory  when  I 
shall  have  been  long  absent  from  them !  How  often  will  I 
hear  in  fancy,  as  I  now  do  in  reality,  the  heavy  tread  of 
passers-by  on  the  rough  pavement  below,  and  the  deep  bell 
of  the  cathedral  chiming  the  swift  hours  with  a  hollow  tone 
that  seems  to  warn  me  rightly  to  employ  them  !  Even  this 
old  room,  with  its  bare  walls,  little  table  and  chairs,  which 
I  have  thought  and  studied  in  so  long  that  it  seems  difficult 
to  think  and  study  anywhere  else,  will  crowd  out  of  memory 
images  of  many  a  loftier  scene.  May  I  but  preserve  for 
the  future  the  hope  and  trust  which  have  cheered  and  sus- 
tained me  here  through  the  sorrow  of  absence  and  the 
anxiety  of  uncertain  toil !  It  is  growing  toward  mid- 
night, and  I  think  of  many  a  night  when  I  sat  here  at  this 
hour  answering  the  spirit-greeting  which  friends  sent  me  at 
sunset  over  the  sea.  All  this  has  now  an  end.  I  must  be- 
gin a  new  wandering,  and  perhaps  in  ten  days  more  I  shall 
have  a  better  place  for  thought  among  the  mountain-cham- 
bers of  the  everlasting  Alps.  I  look  forward  to  the  jour- 
ney with  romantic,  enthusiastic  anticipation,  for  afar  in  the 


FAREWELL  TO  HEIDELBERG.  241 

silvery  distance  stand  the  Coliseum  and  St.  Peter's,  Vesu- 
vius and  the  lovely  Naples — Farewell,  friends,  who  have 
so  long  given  us  a  home ! 

Aug.  9. 

The  airy  basket-work  tower  of  the  Freiburg  minster 
rises  before  me  over  the  black  roofs  of  the  houses,  and  be- 
hind stand  the  gloomy  pine-covered  mountains  of  the 
Black  Forest.  Of  our  walk  to  Heidelberg  over  the  oft- 
trodden  Bergstrasse,  I  shall  say  nothing,  nor  how  we 
climbed  the  Kaiser-stuhl  again,  and  danced  around  on  the 
top  of  the  tower  for  one  hour  amid  cloud  and  mist,  while 
there  was  sunshine  below  in  the  valley  of  the  Neckar,  I 
left  Heidelberg  yesterday  morning  in  the  stehwagen  for 
Carlsruhe.  The  engine  whistled,  the  train  started,  and, 
although  I  kept  my  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  spire  of  the 
Hauptkirche,  three  minutes  hid  it  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
city  from  sight.  Carlsruhe,  the  capital  of  Baden — which 
we  reached  in  an  hour  and  a  half — is  unanimously  pro- 
nounced by  travellers  to  be  a  most  dull  and  tiresome  city. 
From  a  glance  I  had  through  one  of  the  gates,  I  should 
think  its  reputation  was  not  undeserved.  Even  its  name  in 
German  signifies  a  place  of  repose. 

I  stopped  at  Kork,  on  the  branch-road  leading  to  Stras- 
bourg, to  meet  a  German-American  about  to  return  to  mv 
home  in  Pennsylvania,  where  he  had  lived  for  some  time. 
I  inquired  according  to  the  direction  he  had  sent  me  to 
Frankfort,  but  he  was  not  there  ;  however,  an  old  man, 
finding  who  I  was,  said  Herr  Otto  had  directed  him  to  go 
with  me  to  Hesselhurst,  a  village  four  or  five  miles  off, 
where  he  would  meet  me.  So  we  set  off  immediately  over 
the  plain,  and  reached  the  village  at  dusk. 

At  the  little  inn  were  several  of  the  farmers  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  seemed  to  consider  it  as  something  extraor- 
dinary to  see  a  real,  live,  native-born  American.  They 
overwhelmed  me  with  questions  about  the  state  of  our 
country,  its  government,  etc.     The  hostess  brought  me  a 

16 


242  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

supper  of  fried  eggs  and  wurst,  while  they  gathered  around 
the  table  and  began  a  real  category  in  the  dialect  of  the 
country,  which  is  difficult  to  understand.  I  gave  them  the 
best  information  I  could  about  our  mode  of  farming,  the 
different  kinds  of  produce  raised  and  the  prices  paid  to 
laborers.  One  honest  old  man  cried  out,  on  my  saying  I 
had  worked  on  a  farm,  "Ah,  little  brother!  give  me  your 
hand,"  which  he  shook  most  heartily.  I  told  them,  also, 
something  about  our  government  and  the  militia  system,  so 
different  from  the  conscription  of  Europe,  when  a  farmer 
becoming  quite  warm  in  our  favor  said  to  the  others,  with 
an  air  of  the  greatest  decision,  "  One  American  is  better 
than  twenty  Germans."  What  particularly  amused  me 
was  that,  although  I  spoke  German  with  them,  they  seemed 
to  think  I  did  not  understand  what  they  said  among  one 
another,  and  therefore  commented  very  freely  over  my  ap- 
pearance. I  suppose  they  had  the  idea  that  we  were  a  rude, 
savage  race,  for  I  overheard  one  say,  "  One  sees,  neverthe- 
less, that  he  has  been  educated."  Their  honest,  unsophisti- 
cated mode  of  expression  was  very  interesting  to  me,  and 
we  talked  together  till  a  late  hour. 

My  friend  arrived  at  three  o'clock  the  next  morning,  and, 
after  two  or  three  hours'  talk  about  home  and  the  friends 
whom  he  expected  to  see  so  much  sooner  than  I,  a  young 
farmer  drove  me  in  his  wagon  to  Offenburg,  a  small  city  at 
the  foot  of  the  Black  Forest,  where  I  took  the  cars  for 
Freiburg.  The  scenery  between  the  two  places  is  grand. 
The  broad  mountains  of  the  Black  Forest  rear  their  fronts 
on  the  east,  and  the  blue  lines  of  the  French  Vosges  meet 
the  clouds  on  the  west.  The  night  before,  in  walking  over 
the  plain,  I  saw  distinctly  the  whole  of  the  Strasbourg  min- 
ster, whose  spire  is  the  highest  in  Europe,  being  four  hun- 
dred and  ninety  feet,  or  but  twenty-five  feet  lower  than  the 
Pyramid  of  Cheops. 

I  visited  the  minster  of  Freiburg  yesterday  morning.  It 
is  a  grand,  gloomy  old  pile  dating  from  the  eleventh  cen- 


MARKET-DAY.  243 

tury — one  of  the  few  Gothic  churches  in  Germany  that 
have  ever  been  completed.  The  tower  of  beautiful  fret- 
work rises  to  the  height  of  three  hundred  and  ninety-five 
feet,  and  the  body  of  the  church,  including  the  choir,  is  of 
the  same  length.  The  interior  is  solemn  and  majestic. 
Windows  stained  in  colors  that  burn  let  in  a  "  dim  relig- 
ious light "  which  accords  very  well  with  the  dark  old  pil- 
lars and  antique  shrines.  In  two  of  the  chapels  there  are 
some  fine  altar-pieces  by  Holbein  and  one  of  his  scholars, 
and  a  very  large  crucifix  of  silver  and  ebony,  which  is  kept 
with  great  care,  is  said  to  have  been  carried  with  the  cru- 
saders to  the  Holy  Land. 

This  morning  was  the  great  market-day,  and  the  peasan- 
try of  the  Black  Forest  came  down  from  the  mountains  to 
dispose  of  their  produce.  The  square  around  the  minster 
was  filled  with  them,  and  the  singular  costume  of  the 
women  gave  the  scene  quite  a  strange  appearance.  Many 
of  them  wore  bright  red  headdresses  and  shawls,  others  had 
high-crowned  hats  of  yellow  oilcloth  ;  the  young  girls  wore 
their  hair  in  long  plaits  reaching  nearly  to  their  feet.  They 
brought  grain,  butter  and  cheese  and  a  great  deal  of  fine 
fruit  to  sell.  I  bought  some  of  the  wild,  aromatic  plums 
of  the  country  at  the  rate  of  thirty  for  a  cent. 

The  railroad  has  only  been  open  to  Freiburg  within  a 
few  days,  and  is  consequently  an  object  of  great  curiosity 
to  the  peasants,  many  of  whom  never  saw  the  like  before. 
They  throng  around  the  station  at  the  departure  of  the 
train,  and  watch  with  great  interest  the  operations  of  get- 
ting up  the  steam  and  starting.  One  of  the  scenes  that 
grated  most  harshly  on  my  feelings  was  seeing  yesterday  a 
company  of  women  employed  on  the  unfinished  part  of  the 
road.  They  were  digging  and  shovelling  away  in  the  rain, 
nearly  up  to  their  knees  in  mud  and  clay. 

I  called  at  the  institute  for  the  blind,  under  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Miiller.  He  showed  me  some  beautiful  basket  and 
woven  work  by  his  pupils.     The  accuracy  and  skill  with 


244  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

which  everything  was  made  astonished  me.  They  read  with 
amazing  facility  from  the  raised  type,  and  by  means  of 
frames  are  taught  to  write  with  ease  and  distinctness.  In 
music — that  great  solace  of  the  blind — they  most  excelled. 
They  sang  with  an  expression  so  true  and  touching  that  it 
was  a  delight  to  listen.  The  system  of  instruction  adopted 
appears  to  be  most  excellent,  and  gives  to  the  blind  nearly 
every  advantage  which  their  more  fortunate  brethren  enjoy. 

I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Miiller — to  whom  I  was  introduced 
by  an  acquaintance  with  his  friend  Dr.  Rivinus  of  West 
Chester,  Pa. — for  many  kind  attentions.  He  went  with  us 
this  afternoon  to  the  Jagerhaus,  on  a  mountain  near,  where 
we  had  a  very  fine  view  of  the  city  and  its  great  black 
minster,  with  the  plain  of  the  Briesgau,  broken  only  by  the 
Kaiser-stuhl,  a  long  mountain  near  the  Rhine,  whose  golden 
stream  glittered  in  the  distance.  On  climbing  the  Schloss- 
berg,  an  eminence  near  the  city,  we  met  the  grand  duchess 
Stephanie,  a  natural  daughter  of  Napoleon,  as  I  have  heard, 
and  noAV  generally  believed  to  be  the  mother  of  Caspar 
Hauser.  Through  a  work  lately  published,  which  has  since 
been  suppressed,  the  whole  history  has  come  to  light.  Cas- 
par Hauser  was  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  house  of  Baden, 
and  heir  to  the  throne.  The  guilt  of  his  imprisonment  and 
murder  rests,  therefore,  upon  the  present  reigning  family. 

A  chapel  on  the  Schonberg,  the  mountain  opposite,  was 
pointed  out  as  the  spot  where  Louis  XV. — if  I  mistake  not — 
usually  stood  while  his  army  besieged  Freiburg.  A  Ger- 
man officer  having  sent  a  ball  to  this  chapel  which  struck 
the  wall  just  above  the  king's  head,  the  latter  sent  word 
that  if  they  did  not  cease  firing  he  would  point  his  cannons 
at  the  minster.  The  citizens  thought  it  best  to  spare  the 
monarch  and  save  the  cathedral. 

"We  attended  a  meeting  of  the  Walhalla,  or  society  of  the 
students  who  visit  the  Freiburg  university.  They  pleased 
me  better  than  the  enthusiastic  but  somewhat  unrestrained 
Burschenschaft  of  Heidelberg.     Here  they  have  abolished 


THE  WALHALLA.  245 

duelling;  the  greatest  friendship  prevails  among  the  stu- 
dents, and  they  have  not  that  contempt  for  everything 
philister — or  unconnected  with  their  studies — which  pre- 
vails in  other  universities.  Many  respectable  citizens  at- 
tend their  meetings ;  to-night  there  was  a  member  of  the 
chamber  of  deputies  at  Carlsruhe  present,  who  delivered 
two  speeches  in  which  every  third  word  was  "freedom." 
An  address  was  delivered,  also,  by  a  merchant  of  the  city, 
in  which  he  made  a  play  upon  the  word  "  spear,"  which 
signifies  also,  in  a  cant  sense,  "  citizen,"  and  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  both  would  do  their  work  in  the  good  cause. 
He  was  loudly  applauded.  Their  song  of  union  was  by 
Charles  Follen,  and  the  students  were  much  pleased  when 
I  told  them  how  he  was  honored  and  esteemed  in  America. 

After  two  days  delightfully  spent  we  shouldered  our  knap- 
sacks and  left  Freiburg.  The  beautiful  valley  at  the  mouth 
of  which  the  city  lies  runs  like  an  avenue  for  seven  miles 
directly  into  the  mountains,  and  presents  in  its  loveliness 
such  a  contrast  to  the  horrid  defile  which  follows  that  it 
almost  deserves  the  name  which  has  been  given  to  a  little 
inn  at  its  head — the  "  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  The  moun- 
tains of  the  Black  Forest  enclose  it  on  each  side  like  walls, 
covered  to  the  summit  with  luxuriant  woods,  and  in  some 
places  with  those  forests  of  gloomy  pine  which  give  this  re- 
gion its  name.  After  traversing  its  whole  length,  just  be- 
fore plunging  into  the  mountain-depths  the  traveller  rarely 
meets  with  a  finer  picture  than  that  which,  on  looking  back, 
he  sees  framed  between  the  hills  at  the  other  end.  Freiburg 
looks  around  the  foot  of  one  of  the  heights,  with  the  spire 
of  her  cathedral  peeping  above  the  top,  while  the  French 
Vosges  grew  dim  in  the  far  perspective. 

The  road  now  enters  a  wild,  narrow  valley  which  grows 
smaller  as  we  proceed.  From  Himmelreich,  a  large  rude  inn 
by  the  side  of  the  green  meadows,  we  enter  the  H<">1  leu  thai — 
that  is,  from  the  "  Kingdom  of  Heaven  "  to  the  "  Valley  of 
Hell."    The  latter  place  better  deserves  its  appellation  than 


246  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  former.  The  road  winds  between  precipices  of  black 
rock,  above  which  the  thick  foliage  shuts  out  the  brightness 
of  day  and  gives  a  sombre  hue  to  the  scene.  A  torrent 
foams  down  the  chasm,  and  in  one  place  two  mighty  pillars 
interpose  to  prevent  all  passage.  The  stream,  however,  has 
worn  its  way  through,  and  the  road  is  hewn  in  the  rock  by 
its  side.  This  cleft  is  the  only  entrance  to  a  valley  three  or 
four  miles  long  which  lies  in  the  very  heart  of  the  mountains. 
It  is  inhabited  by  a  few  woodmen  and  their  families,  and, 
but  for  the  road  which  passes  through,  would  be  as  perfect 
a  solitude  as  the  Happy  Valley  of  Rasselas.  At  the  farther 
end  a  winding  road  called  "  The  Ascent "  leads  up  the  steep 
mountain  to  an  elevated  region  of  country  thinly  settled 
and  covered  with  herds  of  cattle.  The  cherries — which  in 
the  Rhine-plain  below  had  long  gone — were  just  ripe  here. 
The  people  spoke  a  most  barbarous  dialect;  they  were  social 
and  friendly,  for  everybody  greeted  us,  and  sometimes,  as 
we  sat  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  those  who  passed  by 
would  say  "  Rest  thee !"  or  "  Thrice  rest !" 

Passing  by  the  Titi  Lake,  a  small  body  of  water  which 
was  spread  out  among  the  hills  like  a  sheet  of  ink,  so  deep 
was  its  Stygian  hue,  we  commenced  ascending  a  mountain. 
The  highest  peak  of  the  Schwarzwald,  the  Feldberg,  rose 
not  far  off,  and  on  arriving  at  the  top  of  this  mountain  we 
saw  that  a  half  hour's  walk  would  bring  us  to  its  summit. 
This  was  too  great  a  temptation  for  my  love  of  climbing 
heights ;  so,  with  a  look  at  the  descending  sun  to  calculate 
how  much  time  we  could  spare,  we  set  out.  There  was  no 
path,  but  we  pressed  directly  up  the  steep  side  through 
bushes  and  long  grass,  and  in  a  short  time  reached  the  top, 
breathless  from  such  exertion  in  the  thin  atmosphere.  The 
pine-woods  shut  out  the  view  to  the  north  and  east,  which 
is  said  to  be  magnificent,  as  the  mountain  is  about  five 
thousand  feet  high.  The  wild  black  peaks  of  the  Black 
Forest  were  spread  below  us,  and  the  sun  sank  through 
golden  mist  toward  the  Alsatian  hills.     Afar  to  the  south, 


THE  BLACK   FOREST.  247 

through  cloud  and  storm,  we  could  just  trace  the  white  out- 
line of  the  Swiss  Alps.  The  wind  swept  through  the  pines 
around,  and  bent  the  long  yellow  grass  among  which  we 
sat,  with  a  strange,  mournful  sound  well  suiting  the  gloomv 
and  mysterious  region.  It  soon  grew  cold ;  the  golden 
clouds  settled  down  toward  us,  and  we  made  haste  to  de- 
scend to  the  village  of  Lenzkirch  before  dark. 

Next  morning  we  set  out  early,  without  waiting  to  see  the 
trial  of  archery  which  was  to  take  place  among  the  moun- 
tain-youths. Their  booths  and  targets,  gay  with  banners, 
stood  on  a  green  meadow  beside  the  town.  We  walked 
through  the  Black  Forest  the  whole  forenoon.  It  might  be 
owing  to  the  many  wild  stories  whose  scenes  are  laid  among 
these  hills,  but  with  me  there  was  a  peculiar  feeling  of 
solemnity  pervading  the  whole  region.  The  great  pine- 
woods  are  of  the  very  darkest  hue  of  green,  and  down  their 
hoary,  moss-floored  aisles  daylight  seems  never  to  have 
shone.  The  air  was  pure  and  clear  and  the  sunshine  bright, 
but  it  imparted  no  gayety  to  the  scenery ;  except  the  little 
meadows  of  living  emerald  which  lay  occasionally  in  the 
lap  of  a  dell,  the  landscape  wore  a  solemn  and  serious  air. 
In  a  storm  it  must  be  sublime. 

About  noon,  from  the  top  of  the  last  range  of  hills,  we 
had  a  glorious  view.  The  line  of  the  distant  Alps  could  be 
faintly  traced  high  in  the  clouds,  and  all  the  heights  be- 
tween were  plainly  visible,  from  the  Lake  of  Constance  to 
the  misty  Jura,  which  flanked  the  Vosges  of  the  west. 
From  our  lofty  station  we  overlooked  half  Switzerland,  and, 
had  the  air  been  a  little  clearer,  we  could  have  seen  Mont 
Blanc  and  the  mountains  of  Savoy.  I  could  not  help  envy- 
ing the  feelings  of  the  Swiss  who,  after  long  absence  from 
their  native  land,  first  see  the  Alps  from  this  road.  If  to 
the  emotions  with  which  I  then  looked  on  them  were  added 
the  passionate  love  of  home  and  country  which  a  long  ab- 
sence creates,  such  excess  of  rapture  would  be  almost  too 
great  to  be  borne. 


248  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

In  the  afternoon  we  crossed  the  border,  and  took  leave 
of  Germany  with  regret,  after  near  a  year's  residence  with- 
in its  bounds.  Still,  it  was  pleasant  to  know  we  were  in  a 
republic  once  more.  The  first  step  we  took  made  us  aware 
of  the  change.  There  was  no  policeman  to  call  for  our 
passports  or  search  our  baggage. 

It  was  just  dark  when  we  reached  the  hill  overlooking 
the  Rhine,  on  whose  steep  banks  is  perched  the  antique 
town  of  Schaffhausen.  It  is  still  walled  in,  with  towers  at 
regular  intervals ;  the  streets  are  wide  and  spacious,  and 
the  houses  rendered  extremely  picturesque  by  the  quaint 
projecting  windows.  The  buildings  are  nearly  all  old,  as 
we  learned  by  the  dates  above  the  doors.  At  the  inn  I  met 
with  one  of  the  free  troopers  who  marched  against  Luzerne ; 
he  was  full  of  spirit  and  ready  to  undertake  another  such 
journey.  Indeed,  it  is  the  universal  opinion  that  the  pres- 
ent condition  of  things  cannot  last  much  longer. 

We  took  a  walk  before  breakfast  to  the  Falls  of  the 
Rhine,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Schaffhausen.  I  con- 
fess I  was  somewhat  disappointed  in  them,  after  the  glowing 
descriptions  of  travellers.  The  river  at  this  place  is  little 
more  than  thirty  yards  wide,  and  the  body  of  water,  al- 
though issuing  from  the  Lake  of  Constance,  is  not  remark- 
ably  strong.  For  some  distance  above,  the  fall  of  water  is 
very  rapid,  and  as  it  finally  reaches  the  spot  where,  narrow- 
ed between  rocks,  it  makes  the  grand  plunge,  it  has  acquir- 
ed a  great  velocity.  Three  rocks  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  current,  which  thunders  against  and  around  their  bases, 
but  cannot  shake  them  down.  These,  and  the  rocks  in  the 
bed  of  the  stream,  break  the  force  of  the  fall;  so  that  it  de- 
scends to  the  bottom,  about  fifty  feet  below,  not  in  one  sheet, 
but  shivered  into  a  hundred  leaps  of  snowy  foam.  The 
precipitous  shores  and  the  tasteful  little  castle  which  is 
perched  upon  the  steep  just  over  the  boiling  spray  add 
much  to  its  beauty,  taken  as  a  picture.  As  a  specimen  of 
the  picturesque,  the  whole  scene  is  perfect.     I  should  think 


A  REMINDER  OF  PENNSYLVANIA.  249 

Trenton  Falls,  in  New  York,  must  excel  these  in  wild,  start 
ling  effect ;  but  there  is  such  a  scarcity  of  waterfalls  in  this 
land  that  the  Germans  go  into  raptures  about  them,  and 
will  hardly  believe  that  Niagara  itself  possesses  more  sub- 
limity. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

PEOPLE  AND  PLACES  EN  EASTERN  SWITZERLAND. 

We  left  Schaffhausen  for  Zurich  in  mist  and  rain,  and 
walked  for  some  time  along  the  north  bank  of  the  Rhine. 
We  could  have  enjoyed  the  scenery  much  better  had  it  not 
been  for  the  rain,  which  not  only  hid  the  mountains  from 
sight,  but  kept  us  constantly  half  soaked.  We  crossed  the 
rapid  Rhine  at  Eglisau,  a  curious  antique  village,  and  then 
continued  our  way  through  the  forests  of  Canton  Zurich  to 
Biilach,  with  its  groves  of  lindens—"  those  tall  and  stately 
trees,  with  velvet  down  upon  their  shining  leaves,  and  rustic 
benches  placed  beneath  their  overhanging  eaves." 

When  we  left  the  little  village  where  the  rain  obliged  us 
to  stop  for  the  night,  it  was  clear  and  delightful.  The 
farmers  were  out,  busy  at  work,  their  long,  straight  scythes 
glancing  through  the  wet  grass,  while  the  thick  pines  spark- 
led with  thousands  of  dewy  diamonds.  The  country  was  so 
beautiful  and  cheerful  that  we  half  felt  like  being  in  Amer- 
ica. The  farmhouses  were  scattered  over  the  country  in 
real  American  style,  and  the  glorious  valley  of  the  Limmat, 
bordered  on  the  west  by  a  range  of  woody  hills,  reminded 
me  of  some  scenes  in  my  native  Pennsylvania.  The  houses 
were  neatly  and  tastefully  built,  with  little  gardens  around 
them,  and  the  countenances  of  the  people  spoke  of  intelli- 
gence and  independence.  There  was  the  same  air  of  peace 
and  prosperity  which  delighted  us  in  the  valleys  of  Upper 
Austria,  with  a  look  of  freedom  which  those  had  not.     The 


250  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

faces  of  a  people  are  the  best  index  to  their  condition.  I 
could  read  on  their  brows  a  lofty  self-respect,  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  liberties  they  enjoy,  which  the  Germans  of  the 
laboring-class  never  show.  It  could  not  be  imagination,  for 
the  recent  occurrences  in  Switzerland,  with  the  many  state- 
ments I  heard  in  Germany,  had  prejudiced  me  somewhat 
against  the  land,  and  these  marks  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
were  as  surprising  as  they  were  delightful. 

As  we  approached  Zurich  the  noise  of  employment  from 
mills,  furnaces  and  factories  came  to  us  like  familiar  sounds, 
reminding  us  of  the  bustle  of  our  home-cities.  The  situation 
of  the  city  is  lovely.  It  lies  at  the  head  of  the  lake  and  on 
both  sides  of  the  little  river  Limmat,  whose  clear  green 
waters  carry  the  collected  meltings  of  the  Alps  to  the  Rhine. 
Around  the  lake  rise  lofty  green  hills  which,  sloping  gently 
back,  bear  on  their  sides  hundreds  of  pleasant  country-houses 
and  farms,  and  the  snowy  Alpine  range  extends  along  the 
southern  sky.  The  Limmat  is  spanned  by  a  number  of 
bridges,  and  its  swift  waters  turn  many  mills  which  are 
built  above  them.  From  these  bridges  one  can  look  out 
over  the  blue  lake  and  down  the  thronged  streets  of  the 
city  on  each  side,  whose  bright,  cheerful  houses  remind  him 
of  Italy. 

Zurich  can  boast  of  finer  promenades  than  any  other  city 
in  Switzerland.  The  old  battlements  are  planted  with  trees 
and  transformed  into  pleasant  walks,  which,  being  elevated 
above  the  city,  command  views  of  its  beautiful  environs. 
A  favorite  place  of  resort  is  the  Lindenhof,  an  elevated 
court-yard  shaded  by  immense  trees.  The  fountains  of  water 
under  them  are  always  surrounded  by  washerwomen,  and 
in  the  morning  groups  of  merry  school-children  may  be  seen 
tumbling  over  the  grass.  The  teachers  take  them  there  in 
a  body  for  exercise  and  recreation.  The  Swiss  children  are 
beautiful,  bright-eyed  creatures;  there  is  scarcely  one  who 
does  not  exhibit  the  dawning  of  an  active,  energetic  spirit. 
It  may  be  partly  attributed  to  the  fresh,  healthy  climate  of 


KINDLY  GREETINGS.  251 

Switzerland,  but  I  am  partial  enough  to  republics  to  believe 
that  the  influence  of  the  government  under  which  they  live 
has  also  its  share  in  producing  the  effect. 

There'is  a  handsome  promenade  on  an  elevated  bastion 
which  overlooks  the  city  and  lakes.  While  enjoying  the 
cool  morning  breeze  and  listening  to  the  stir  of  the  streets 
below  us,  we  were  also  made  aware  of  the  social  and  friendly 
politeness  of  the  people.  Those  who  passed  by  on  their 
walk  around  the  rampart  greeted  us  almost  with  the  famil- 
iarity of  an  acquaintance.  Simple  as  was  the  act,  we  felt 
grateful,  for  it  had  at  least  the  seeming  of  a  friendly  interest 
and  a  sympathy  with  the  loneliness  which  the  stranger 
sometimes  feels.  A  school-teacher  leading  her  troop  of 
merry  children  on  their  morning  walk  around  the  bastion 
nodded  to  us  pleasantly,  and  forthwith  the  whole  company 
of  chubby-cheeked  rogues,  looking  up  at  us  with  a  pleasant 
archness,  lisped  a  "  Gvien  morgen  /"  that  made  the  hearts 
glad  within  us.  I  know  of  nothing  that  has  given  me  a 
more  sweet  and  tender  delight  than  the  greeting  of  a  little 
child  who,  leaving  his  noisy  playmates,  ran  across  the  street 
to  me,  and,  taking  my  hand — which  he  could  barely  clasp 
in  both  his  soft  little  ones — looked  up  in  my  face  with  an 
expression  so  winning  and  affectionate  that  I  loved  him 
at  once.  The  happy,  honest  farmers,  too,  spoke  to  us  cheer- 
fully everywhere.  "We  learned  a  lesson  from  all  this :  we 
felt  that  not  a  word  of  kindness  is  ever  wasted,  that  a  sim- 
ple friendly  glance  may  cheer  the  spirit  and  warm  the  lonely 
heart,  and  that  the  slightest  deed  prompted  by  generous 
sympathy  becomes  a  living  joy  in  the  memory  of  the  receiver 
which  blesses  unceasingly  him  who  bestowed  it. 

We  left  Zurich  the  same  afternoon  to  walk  to  Stafa, 
where  we  were  told  the  poet  Freiligrath  resided.  The  road 
led  along  the  bank  of  the  lake,  whose  shores  sloped  gently 
up  from  the  water,  covered  with  gardens  and  farmhouses, 
which,  with  the  bolder  mountains  that  rose  behind  them, 
made  a  combination  of  the  lovely  and  grand  on  which  the 


252  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

eye  rested  with  rapture  and  delight.  The  sweetest  cottages 
were  embowered  among  the  orchards,  and  the  whole  coun- 
try bloomed  like  a  garden.  The  waters  of  the  lake  are  of 
a  pale,  transparent  green,  and  so  clear  that  we  could  see 
its  bottom  of  white  pebbles  for  some  distance.  Here  and 
there  floated  a  quiet  boat  on  its  surface.  The  opposite  hills 
were  covered  with  a  soft  blue  haze,  and  white  villages  sat 
along  the  shore  "  like  swans  among  the  reeds."  Behind, 
we  saw  the  woody  range  of  the  Brunig  Alp.  The  people 
bade  us  a  pleasant  "  Good-evening."  There  was  a  univer- 
sal air  of  cheerfulness  and  content  on  their  countenances. 

Toward  evening  the  clouds  which  hung  in  the  south  the 
whole  day  dispersed  a  little,  and  we  could  see  the  Dodiberg 
and  the  Alps  of  Glarus.  As  sunset  drew  on,  the  broad 
summits  of  snow  and  the  clouds  which  were  rolled  around 
them  assumed  a  soft  rosy  hue  which  increased  in  bril- 
liancy as  the  light  of  day  faded.  The  rough  icy  crags  and 
snowy  steeps  were  fused  in  the  warm  light  and  half 
blended  with  the  bright  clouds.  This  blaze,  as  it  were,  of 
the  mountains  at  sunset,  is  called  the  "  Alp-glow,"  and  ex- 
ceeds all  one's  highest  conceptions  of  Alpine  grandeur. 
We  watched  the  fading  glory  till  it  quite  died  away  and 
the  summits  wore  a  livid,  ashy  hue,  like  the  mountains  of 
a  world  wherein  there  was  no  life.  In  a  few  minutes  more 
the  dusk  of  twilight  spread  over  the  scene,  the  boatmen 
glided  home  over  the  still  lake  and  the  herdsmen  drove 
their  cattle  back  from  pasture  on  the  slopes  and  meadows. 

On  inquiring  for  Freiligrath  at  Stafa  we  found  he  had 
removed  to  Rapperschwyl,  some  distance  farther.  As  it 
was  already  late,  we  waited  for  the  steamboat  which  leaves 
Zurich  every  evening.  It  came  along  about  eight  o'clock, 
and  a  little  boat  carried  us  out  through  rain  and  darkness 
to  meet  it  as  it  came  like  a  fiery-eyed  monster  over  the 
water.  We  stepped  on  board  the  "  Republican,"  and  in 
half  an  hour  were  brought  to  the  wharf  at  Rapperschwyl. 

There  are  two  small  islands  in  the  lake,  one  of  which, 


A  MORNING  WITH  FREILIGRATH.  253 

with  a  little  chapel  rising  from  among  its  green  trees,  is 
Ufnau,  the  grave  of  Ulrich  von  Hutten,  one  of  the  fathers 
of  the  German  Reformation.  His  fiery  poems  have  been 
the  source  from  which  many  a  German  bard  has  derived 
his  inspiration,  and  Freiligrath,  who  now  lives  in  sight  of 
his  tomb,  has  published  an  indignant  poem  because  an  inn 
with  gaming-tables  has  been  established  in  the  ruins  of  the 
castle  near  Creutznach  where  Hutten  found  refuge  from  his 
enemies  with  Franz  von  Sickingen,  brother-in-law  of  Goetz 
with  the  Iron  Hand.  The  monks  of  Einsiedeln,  to  whom 
Ufnau  belongs,  have  carefully  obliterated  all  traces  of  his 
grave,  so  that  the  exact  spot  is  not  known,  in  order  that 
even  a  tombstone  might  be  denied  him  who  once  strove  to 
overturn  their  order.  It  matters  little  to  that  bold  spirit 
whose  motto  was,  "  The  die  is  cast :  I  have  dared  it !" 
The  whole  island  is  his  monument,  if  he  need  one. 

I  spent  the  whole  of  the  morning  with  Freiligrath,  the 
poet,  who  was  lately  banished  from  Germany  on  account 
of  the  liberal  principles  his  last  volume  contains.  He  lives 
in  a  pleasant  country-house  on  the  Meyerberg,  an  eminence 
near  Rapperschwyl  overlooking  a  glorious  prospect.  On 
leaving  Frankfort,  R.  S.  Willis  gave  me  a  letter  to  him, 
and  I  was  glad  to  meet  with  a  man  personally  whom  I  ad- 
mired so  much  through  his  writings,  and  whose  boldness  in 
speaking  out  against  the  tyranny  which  his  country  suffers 
forms  such  a  noble  contrast  to  the  cautious  slowness  of  his 
countrymen.  He  received  me  kindly  and  conversed  much 
upon  American  literature.  He  is  a  warm  admirer  of  Bry- 
ant and  Longfellow,  and  has  translated  many  of  their  poems 
into  German.  He  said  he  had  received  a  warm  invitation 
from  a  colony  of  Germans  in  Wisconsin  to  join  them  and 
enjoy  that  freedom  which  his  native  land  denies,  but  that 
his  circumstances  would  not  allow  it  at  present.  He  is  per- 
haps thirty-five  years  of  age.  His  brow  is  high  and  noble, 
and  his  eyes,  which  are  large  and  of  a  clear  gray,  beam 
with  serious,  saddened  thought.     His  long  chestnut  hair, 


254  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

uniting  with  a  handsome  beard  and  moustache,  gives  a  lion- 
like dignity  to  his  energetic  countenance.  His  talented 
wife,  Ida  Freiligrath,  who  shares  his  literary  labors,  and  an 
amiable  sister,  are  with  him  in  exile,  and  he  is  happier  in 
their  faithfulness  than  when  he  enjoyed  the  favors  of  a  cor- 
rupt king. 

We  crossed  the  long  bridge  from  Rapperschwyl  and  took 
the  road  over  the  mountain  opposite,  ascending  for  nearly 
two  hours  along  the  side,  with  glorious  views  of  the  Lake 
of  Zurich  and  the  mountains  which  enclose  it.  The  upper 
and  lower  ends  of  the  lake  were  completely  hid  by  the 
storms  which,  to  our  regret,  veiled  the  Alps,  but  the  part 
below  lay  spread  out  dim  and  grand,  like  a  vast  picture.  It 
rained  almost  constantly,  and  we  were  obliged  occasionally 
to  take  shelter  in  the  pine-forests  whenever  a  heavier  cloud 
passed  over.  The  road  was  lined  with  beggars,  who  drop- 
ped on  their  knees  in  the  rain  before  us  or  placed  bars 
across  the  way  and  then  took  them  down  again,  for  which 
they  demanded  money. 

At  length  we  reached  the  top  of  the  pass.  Many  pil- 
grims to  Einsiedeln  had  stopped  at  a  little  inn  there,  some 
of  whom  came  a  long  distance  to  pay  their  vows,  especially 
as  the  next  day  was  the  ascension  day  of  the  Virgin,  whose 
image  there  is  noted  for  performing  many  miracles.  Pass- 
ing on,  we  crossed  a  wild  torrent  by  an  arch  called  the 
"  Devil's  Bridge."  The  lofty,  elevated  plains  were  covered 
with  scanty  patches  of  grain  and  potatoes  and  the  boys 
tended  their  goats  on  the  grassy  slopes,  sometimes  trilling 
or  yodling  an  Alpine  melody.  An  hour's  walk  brought  us 
to  Einsiedeln,  a  small  town  whose  only  attraction  is  the 
abbey — after  Loretto,  in  Italy,  the  most  celebrated  resort 
for  pilgrims  in  Europe. 

We  entered  immediately  into  the  great  church.  The 
gorgeous  vaulted  roof  and  long  aisles  were  dim  with  the 
early  evening ;  hundreds  of  worshippers  sat  around  the 
sides  or  kneeled  in  groups  on  the  broad  stone  pavements 


THE   ABBEY  OF  EINSIEDELN.  255 

chanting  over  their  Paternosters  and  Ave  Marias  in  a 
shrill,  monotonous  tone,  while  the  holy  image  near  the  en- 
trance was  surrounded  by  persons  many  of  whom  came  in 
the  hope  of  being  healed  of  some  disorder  under  which 
they  suffered.  I  could  not  distinctly  make  out  the  image, 
for  it  was  placed  back  within  the  grating,  and  a  strong 
crimson  lamp  behind  it  was  made  to  throw  the  light  around 
in  the  form  of  a  glory.  Many  of  the  pilgrims  came  a  long 
distance.  I  saw  some  in  the  costume  of  the  Black  Forest 
and  others  who  appeared  to  be  natives  of  the  Italian  can- 
tons, and  a  group  of  young  women,  wearing  conical  fur 
caps,  from  the  forests  of  Bregenz,  on  the  Lake  of  Constance. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  splendor  of  this  church  situated 
in  a  lonely  and  unproductive  Alpine  valley.  The  lofty 
arches  of  the  ceiling,  which  are  covered  with  superb  fresco- 
paintings,  rest  on  enormous  pillars  of  granite,  and  every 
image  and  shrine  is  richly  ornamented  with  gold.  Some 
of  the  chapels  were  filled  with  the  remains  of  martyrs,  and 
these  were  always  surrounded  with  throngs  of  believers. 
The  choir  was  closed  by  a  tall  iron  grating ;  a  single  lamp 
which  swung  from  the  roof  enabled  me  to  see  through  the 
darkness  that,  though  much  more  rich  in  ornaments  than 
the  body  of  the  church,  it  was  less  grand  and  impressive. 
The  frescos  which  cover  the  ceiling  are  said  to  be  the  finest 
paintings  of  the  kind  in  Switzerland. 

In  the  morning  our  starting  was  delayed  by  the  rain,  and 
we  took  advantage  of  it  to  hear  mass  in  the  abbey  and  en- 
joy the  heavenly  music.  The  latter  was  of  the  loftiest 
kind.  There  was  one  voice  among  the  singers  I  shall  not 
soon  forget ;  it  was  like  the  warble  of  a  bird  who  sings  out 
of  very  wantonness.  On  and  on  it  sounded,  making  its 
clear,  radiant  sweetness  heard  above  the  chant  of  the  choir 
and  the  thunder  of  the  orchestra.  Such  a  rich,  varied  and 
untiring  strain  of  melody  I  have  rarely  listened  to. 

When  the  service  ceased,  we  took  a  small  road  leading  to 
Schwytz.     We  had  now  fairly  entered  the  Alpine  region, 


256  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

and  our  first  task  was  to  cross  a  mountain.  This  having 
been  done,  we  kept  along  the  back  of  the  ridge  which 
bounds  the  Lake  of  Zug  on  the  south,  terminating  in  the 
well-knoAvn  Rossberg.  The  scenery  became  wilder  with 
every  step.  The  luxuriant  fields  of  herbage  on  the  moun- 
tains were  spotted  with  the  picturesque  chalets  of  the  hunt- 
ers and  alp-herds;  cattle  and  goats  were  browsing  along  the 
declivities,  their  bells  tinkling  most  musically,  and  the  lit- 
tle streams  fell  in  foam  down  the  steeps.  We  here  began  to 
realize  our  anticipations  of  Swiss  scenery.  Just  on  the  other 
side  of  the  range  along  which  we  travelled  lay  the  little 
Lake  of  Egeri  and  valley  of  Morgarten,  where  Tell  and 
his  followers  overcame  the  army  of  the  German  emperor. 
Near  the  Lake  of  Lowertz  we  found  a  chapel  by  the  road- 
side built  on  the  spot  where  the  house  of  Werner  Stauff- 
acher,  one  of  the  "  three  men  of  Griitli,"  formerly  stood. 
It  bears  a  poetical  inscription  in  old  German  and  a  rude 
painting  of  the  battle  of  Morgarten. 

As  we  wound  around  the  Lake  of  Lowertz  we  saw  the 
valley  lying  between  the  Rossberg  and  the  Righi,  which 
latter  mountain  stood  full  in  view.  To  our  regret,  and  that 
of  all  other  travellers,  the  clouds  hung  low  upon  it,  as  they 
had  done  for  a  week  at  least,  and  there  was  no  prospect  of 
a  change.  The  Rossberg,  from  which  we  descended,  is 
about  four  thousand  feet  in  height ;  a  dark  brown  stripe 
from  its  very  summit  to  the  valley  below  shows  the  track 
of  the  avalanche  which  in  1806  overwhelmed  Goldau  and 
laid  waste  the  beautiful  vale  of  Lowertz.  We  could  trace 
the  masses  of  rock  and  earth  as  far  as  the  foot  of  the  Righi. 
Four  hundred  and  fifty  persons  perished  by  this  catastro- 
phe, which  was  so  sudden  that  in  five  minutes  the  whole 
lovely  valley  was  transformed  into  a  desolate  wilderness. 
The  shock  was  so  great  that  the  Lake  of  Lowertz  over- 
flowed its  banks,  and  part  of  the  village  of  Steinen,  at  the 
upper  end,  was  destroyed  by  the  waters. 

An  hour's  walk  through  a  blooming  Alpine  vale  brought 


GRUTLI   MEADOW.  257 

us  to  the  little  town  of  Schwytz,  the  capital  of  the  canton. 
It  stands  at  the  foot  of  a  rock-mountain  in  shape  not  unlike 
Gibraltar,  but  double  its  height.  The  bare  and  rugged 
summits  seem  to  hang  directly  over  the  town,  but  the  peo- 
ple dwell  below  without  fear,  although  the  warning  ruins  of 
Goldau  are  full  in  sight.  A  narrow  blue  line  at  the  end  of 
the  valley,  which  stretches  westward,  marks  the  Lake  of  the 
Four  Cantons.  Down  this  valley  we  hurried,  that  we  might 
not  miss  the  boat  which  plies  daily  from  Luzerne  to  Flueleh. 
I  regretted  not  being  able  to  visit  Luzerne,  as  I  had  a  letter 
to  the  distinguished  Swiss  composer  Schnyder  von  AVarten- 
see,  who  resides  there  at  present.  The  place  is  said  to  pre- 
sent a  most  desolate  appearance,  being  avoided  by  travellers, 
and  even  by  artisans ;  so  that  business  of  all  kinds  has  al- 
most entirely  ceased. 

At  the  little  town  of  Brunnen,  on  the  lake,  we  awaited 
the  coming  of  the  steamboat.  The  scenery  around  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly grand.  Looking  down  toward  Luzerne,  we  could 
see  the  dark  mass  of  Mount  Pilatus  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  the  graceful  outline  of  the  Righi,  still  wearing  his 
hood  of  clouds.  We  put  off  in  a  skiff  to  meet  the  boat, 
with  two  Capuchin  friars  in  long  brown  mantles  and  cowls, 
carrying  rosaries  at  their  girdles. 

Nearly  opposite  Brunnen  is  the  meadow  of  Grutli,  where 
the  union  of  the  Swiss  patriots  took  place  and  the  bond  was 
sealed  that  enabled  them  to  cast  off  their  chains.  It  is  a 
little  green  slope  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  between  the 
two  cantons  of  Uri  and  Unterwalden,  surrounded  on  all 
sides  by  precipices.  A  little  crystal  spring  in  the  centre  is 
believed  by  the  common  people  to  have  gushed  up  on  the 
spot  where  the  three  "  linked  the  hands  that  made  them 
free."  It  is  also  a  popular  belief  that  they  slumber  in  a 
rocky  cavern  near  the  spot,  and  that  they  will  arise  and 
come  forth  when  the  liberties  of  Switzerland  are  in  danger. 
She  stands  at  present  greatly  in  need  of  a  new  triad  to  re- 
store the  ancient  harmony. 
17 


258  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

We  passed  this  glorious  scene,  almost  the  only  green  spot 
on  the  bleak  mountain-side,  and  swept  around  the  base  of 
the  Axenberg,  at  whose  foot,  in  a  rocky  cave,  stands  the 
chapel  of  William  Tell.  This  is  built  on  the  spot  where  he 
leaped  from  Gessler's  boat  during  the  storm.  It  sits  at  the 
base  of  the  rock,  on  the  water's  edge,  and  can  be  seen  far 
over  the  waves.  The  Alps,  whose  eternal  snows  are  lifted 
dazzling  to  the  sky,  complete  the  grandeur  of  a  scene  so 
hallowed  by  the  footsteps  of  Freedom.  The  grand  and 
lonely  solemnity  of  the  landscape  impressed  me  with  an  awe 
like  that  one  feels  when  standing  in  a  mighty  cathedral 
when  the  aisles  are  dim  with  twilight.  And  how  full  of 
interest  to  a  citizen  of  young  and  free  America  is  a  shrine 
where  the  votaries  of  Liberty  have  turned  to  gather  strength 
and  courage  through  the  storms  and  convulsions  of  five 
hundred  years! 

We  stopped  at  the  village  of  Fluelen,  at  the  head  of  the 
lake,  and  walked  on  to  Altorf,  a  distance  of  half  a  league. 
Here,  in  the  market-place,  is  a  tower  said  to  be  built  on  the 
spot  where  the  linden  tree  stood  under  which  the  child  of 
Tell  was  placed,  while,  about  a  hundred  yards  distant,  is 
a  fountain  with  Tell's  statue,  on  the  spot  from  whence  he 
shot  the  apple.  If  these  localities  are  correct,  he  must  in- 
deed have  been  master  of  the  cross-bow.  The  tower  is  cov- 
ered with  rude  paintings  of  the  principal  events  in  the  his- 
tory of  Swiss  liberty.  I  viewed  these  scenes  with  double 
interest  from  having  read  Schiller's  Wilhelm  Tell,  one  of  the 
most  splendid  tragedies  ever  written.  The  beautiful  reply 
of  his  boy  when  he  described  to  him  the  condition  of  the 
"  land  where  there  are  no  mountains  "  was  sounding  in  my 
ears  during  the  whole  day's  journey  : 

"  Father,  I'd  feel  oppressed  in  that  broad  land :. 
I'd  rather  dwell  beneath  the  avalanche !" 

The  little  village  of  Burglen,  whose  spire  we  saw  above 
the  forest  in  a  glen  near  by  was  the  birthplace  of  Tell,  and 


ALPINE  TWILIGHT.  259 

the  place  where  his  dwelling  stood  is  now  marked  by  a  small 
chapel.  In  the  Schachen,  a  noisy  mountain-stream  that 
comes  down  to  join  the  Reuss,  he  was  drowned  when  an  old 
man,  in  attempting  to  rescue  a  child  who  had  fallen  in — a 
death  worthy  of  the  hero.  We  bestowed  a  blessing  on  his 
memory  in  passing,  and  then  followed  the  banks  of  the  rapid 
Reuss.  Twilight  was  gathering  in  the  deep  Alpine  glen, 
and  the  mountains  on  each  side,  half  seen  through  the  mist, 
looked  like  vast  awful  phantoms ;  soon  they  darkened  to 
black,  indistinct  masses.  All  was  silent  except  the  deep- 
ened roar  of  the  falling  floods ;  dark  clouds  brooded  above 
us  like  the  outspread  wings  of  night,  and  we  were  glad  when 
the  little  village  of  Amstegg  was  reached  and  the  parlor  of 
the  inn  opened  to  us  a  more  cheerful,  if  not  so  romantic, 
scene. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

PASSAGE  OF   THE   ST.  GOTHARD   AND  DESCENT  INTO  ITALY. 

Leaving  Amstegg,  I  passed  the  whole  day  among  snowy, 
sky-piercing  Alps,  torrents,  chasms  and  clouds.  The  clouds 
appeared  to  be  breaking  up  as  we  set  out,  and  the  white  top 
of  the  Reussberg  was  now  and  then  visible  in  the  sky.  Just 
above  the  village  are  the  remains  of  Zwing  Uri,  the  castle 
begun  by  the  tyrant  Gessler  for  the  complete  subjugation 
of  the  canton.  Following  the  Reuss  up  through  a  narrow 
valley,  we  passed  the  Bristenstock,  which  lifts  its  jagged 
crags  nine  thousand  feet  in  the  air,  while  on  the  other  side 
stand  the  snowy  summits  which  lean  toward  the  Rhone  gla- 
cier and  St.  Gothard.  From  the  deep  glen  where  the  Reuss 
foamed  down  toward  the  Lake  of  the  Forest  Cantons  the 
mountains  rose  with  a  majestic  sweep  so  far  into  the  sky 
that  the  brain  grew  almost  dizzy  in  following  their  outlines. 
Woods,  chalets  and  slopes  of  herbage  covered  their  bases, 


260  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

where  the  mountain-cattle  and  goats  were  browsing,  while 
the  herd-boys  sang  their  native  melodies  or  woke  the  ring- 
ing echoes  with  the  loud,  sweet  sounds  of  their  wooden 
horns.  Higher  up  the  sides  were  broken  into  crags  and 
covered  with  stunted  pines ;  then  succeeded  a  belt  of  bare 
rock  with  a  little  snow  lying  in  the  crevices,  and  the  sum- 
mits of  dazzling  white  looked  out  from  the  clouds  nearly 
three-fourths  the  height  of  the  zenith.  Sometimes,  when 
the  vale  was  filled  with  clouds,  it  was  startling  to  see  them 
parting  around  a  solitary  summit  apparently  isolated  in  the 
air  at  an  immense  height,  for  the  mountain  to  which  it  be- 
longed was  hidden  to  the  very  base. 

The  road  passed  from  one  side  of  the  valley  to  the  other, 
crossing  the  Reuss  on  bridges  sometimes  ninety  feet  high. 
After  three  or  four  hours'  walking,  we  reached  a  frightful 
pass  called  the  Schollenen.  So  narrow  is  the  defile  that 
before  reaching  it  the  road  seemed  to  enter  directly  into  the 
mountain.  Precipices  a  thousand  feet  high  tower  above,  and 
the  stream  roars  and  boils  in  the  black  depth  below.  The 
road  is  a  wonder  of  art ;  it  winds  around  the  edge  of  hor- 
rible chasms  or  is  carried  on  lofty  arches  across,  with  some- 
times a  hold  apparently  so  frail  that  one  involuntarily  shud- 
ders. At  a  place  called  the  Devil's  Bridge  the  Reuss  leaps 
about  seventy  feet  in  three  or  four  cascades,  sending  up  con- 
tinually a  cloud  of  spray,  while  a  wind  created  by  the  fall 
blows  and  whirls  around  with  a  force  that  nearly  lifts  one 
from  his  feet.  Wordsworth  has  described  the  scene  in  the 
following  lines : 

"  Plunge  with  the  Eeuss,  embrowned  by  Terror's  breath, 
Where  Danger  roofs  the  narrow  walks  of  Death, 
By  floods  that,  thundering  from  their  dizzy  height, 
Swell  more  gigantic  on  the  steadfast  sight — 
Black,  drizzling  crags  that,  beaten  by  the  din, 
Vibrate,  as  if  a  voice  complained  within, 
Loose-hanging  rocks  the  Day's  blessed  eye  that  hide, 
And  crosses  reared  to  Death  on  every  side." 


ST.  GOTHARD.  261 

Beyond  the  Devil's  Bridge  the  mountains  which  nearly 
touched  before  interlock  into  each  other,  and  a  tunnel  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  long  leads  through  the  rock 
into  the  vale  of  Urseren,  surrounded  by  the  Upper  Alps. 
The  little  town  of  Andermatt  lies  in  the  middle  of  this  val- 
ley, which,  with  the  peaks  around,  is  covered  with  short 
yellowish-brown  grass.  We  met  near  Amstegg  a  little 
Italian  boy  walking  home  from  Germany,  quite  alone  and 
without  money,  for  we  saw  him  give  his  last  kreutzer  to  a 
blind  beggar  along  the  road.  We  therefore  took  him  with 
us,  as  he  was  afraid  to  cross  the  St.  Gothard  alone. 

After  refreshing  ourselves  at  Andermatt,  we  started,  five 
in  number,  including  a  German  student,  for  the  St.  Gothard. 
Behind  the  village  of  Hospiz,  which  stands  at  the  bottom 
of  the  valley  leading  to  Realp  and  the  Furca  Pass,  the  way 
commences,  winding  backward  and  forward,  higher  and 
higher,  through  a  valley  covered  with  rocks,  with  the 
mighty  summits  of  the  Alps  around,  untenanted  save  by 
the  chamois  and  mountain-eagle.  Not  a  tree  was  to  be  seen. 
The  sides  of  the  mountains  were  covered  with  loose  rocks 
waiting  for  the  next  torrent  to  wash  them  down,  and  the 
tops  were  robed  in  eternal  snow.  A  thick  cloud  rolled 
down  over  us  as  we  went  on,  following  the  diminishing  brooks 
to  their  snowy  source  in  the  Peak  of  St.  Gothard.  AVe  cut 
off  the  bends  of  the  roa.d  by  footpaths  up  the  rocks,  which 
we  ascended  in  single  file,  one  of  the  Americans  going  ahead 
and  the  little  Pietro  with  his  staff  and  bundle  bringing  up 
the  rear.  The  rarefied  air  we  breathed  seven  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea  was  like  exhilarating  gas.  We  felt  no  fatigue, 
but  ran  and  shouted  and  threw  snow-balls  in  the  middle  of 
August. 

After  three  hours'  walk  we  reached  the  two  clear  and 
silent  lakes  which  send  their  waters  to  the  Adriatic  and  the 
North  Sea.  Here,  as  we  looked  down  the  Italian  side,  the 
sky  became  clear  ;  we  saw  the  top  of  St.  Gothard  many 
thousand  feet  above,  and,  stretching  to  the  south,  the  sum- 


262  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

mits  of  the  mountains  which  guard  the  vales  of  the  Ticino 
and  the  Adda.  The  former  monastery  has  been  turned 
into  an  inn  ;  there  is,  however,  a  kind  of  church  attached, 
attended  by  a  single  monk.  It  was  so  cold  that,  although 
late,  we  determined  to  descend  to  the  first  village.  The 
Italian  side  is  very  steep,  and  the  road — called  the  Via 
Trimola — is  like  a  thread  dropped  down  and  constantly 
doubling  back  upon  itself.  The  deep  chasms  were  filled 
with  snow,  although  exposed  to  the  full  force  of  the  sun, 
and  for  a  long  distance  there  was  scarcely  a  sign  of  vege- 
tation. 

We  thought,  as  we  went  down,  that  every  step  was  bring- 
ing us  nearer  to  a  sunnier  land — that  the  glories  of  Italy, 
which  had  so  long  lain  in  the  airy  background  of  the  fu- 
ture, would  soon  spread  themselves  before  us  in  their  real 
or  imagined  beauty.  Reaching  at  dusk  the  last  height 
above  the  vale  of  the  Ticino,  we  saw  the  little  village  of 
Airolo,  with  its  musical  name,  lying  in  a  hollow  of  the 
mountains.  A  few  minutes  of  leaping,  sliding  and  rolling 
took  us  down  the  grassy  declivity,  and  we  found  we  had 
descended  from  the  top  in  an  hour  and  a  half,  although  the 
distance  by  the  road  is  nine  miles.  I  need  not  say  how 
glad  we  were  to  relieve  our  trembling  knees  and  exhausted 
limbs. 

I  have  endeavored  several  times  .to  give  some  idea  of  the 
sublimity  of  the  Alps,  but  words  seem  almost  powerless  to 
measure  these  mighty  mountains.  No  effort  of  the  imagi- 
nation could  possibly  equal  their  real  grandeur.  I  wish 
also  to  describe  the  feelings  inspired  by  being  among  them 
— feelings  which  can  best  be  expressed  through  the  warmer 
medium  of  poetry. 


SONG  OF  THE  ALP.  263 

SONG  OF  THE  ALP. 


I  sit  aloft  on  my  thunder-throne, 

And  my  voice  of  dread  the  nations  own 
As  I  speak  in  storm  below. 

Tlie  valleys  quake  with  a  breathless  fear 

When  I  hurl  in  wrath  my  icy  spear 
And  shake  my  locks  of  snow. 

When  the  avalanche  forth  like  a  tiger  leaps, 
How  the  vassal-mountains  quiver, 

And  the  storm  that  sweeps  through  the  airy  deeps 

Makes  the  hoary  pine-wood  shiver  ! 
Above  them  all,  in  a  brighter  air, 
I  lift  my  forehead  proud  and  bare, 
And  the  lengthened  sweep  of  my  forest-robe 
Trails  down  to  the  low  and  captured  globe, 
Till  its  borders  touch  the  dark-green  wave 
In  whose  soundless  depths  my  feet  I  lave. 
The  winds,  imprisoned,  around  me  blow, 
And  terrible  tempests  whirl  the  snow  ; 
Rocks  from  their  caverned  beds  are  torn, 
And  the  blasted  forest  to  heaven  is  borne  ; 
High  through  the  din  of  the  stormy  band 
Like  misty  giants  the  mountains  stand, 
And  their  thunder-revel  o'ersounds  the  woe 
That  cries  from  the  desolate  vales  below  ; 
I  part  the  clouds  with  my  lifted  crown 
Till  the  sun-ray  slants  on  the  glaciers  down, 
And  trembling  men.  in  the  valleys  pale, 
Rejoice  at  the  gleam  of  my  icy  mail. 

II. 
I  wear  a  crown  of  the  sunbeam's  gold, 
With  glacier-gems  on  my  forehead  old — 

A  monarch  crowned  by  God. 
What  son  of  the  servile  earth  may  dare 
Such  signs  of  a  regal  power  to  wear 

While  chained  to  her  darkened  sod? 
I  know  of  a  nobler  and  grander  lore 

Than  Time  records  on  his  crumbling  pages, 


264  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

And  the  soul  of  my  solitude  teaches  more 

Than  the  gathered  deeds  of  perished  ages; 
For  I  have  ruled  since  Time  began 
And  wear  no  fetter  made  by  man. 
I  scorn  the  coward  and  craven  race 
Who  dwell  around  my  mighty  base, 
For  they  leave  the  lessons  I  grandly  gave 
And  bend  to  the  yoke  of  the  crouching  slave; 
I  shout  aloud  to  the  chainless  skies ; 
The  stream  through  its  falling  foam  replies — 
And  my  voice,  like  the  sound  of  the  surging  sea, 
To  the  nations  thunders — "  I  am  free !" 
I  spoke  to  Tell  when  a  tyrant's  hand 
Lay  heavy  and  hard  on  his  native  land, 
And  the  spirit  whose  glory  from  mine  he  won 
Blessed  the  Alpine  dwellers  with  Freedom's  sun! 
The  Student-Boy  on  the  Gmnnden-plain 
Heard  my  solemn  voice,  but  he  fought  in  vain ; 
I  called  from  the  crags  of  the  Passeir  Glen 
When  the  despot  stood  in  my  realm  again, 
And  Hofer  sprang  at  the  proud  command 
And  roused  the  men  of  the  Tyrol  land. 

III. 
I  struggle  up  to  the  dim  blue  heaven 
From  the  world  far  down  in  whose  breast  are  driven 

The  props  of  my  pillared  throne  ; 
And  the  rosy  fires  of  morning  glow 
Like  a  glorious  thought  on  my  brow  of  snow, 

While  the  vales  are  dark  and  lone ! 
Ere  twilight  summons  the  first  faint  star 
I  seem  to  the  nations  who  dwell  afar 
Like  a  shadowy  cloud  whose  every  fold 
The  sunset  dyes  with  its  purest  gold, 
And  the  soul  mounts  up  through  that  gateway  fair 
To  try  its  wings  in  a  loftier  air. 
The  finger  of  God  on  my  brow  is  pressed, 
His  spirit  beats  in  my  giant  breast, 
And  I  breathe,  as  the  endless  ages  roll, 
His  silent  words  to  the  eager  soul. 
I  prompt  the  thoughts  of  the  mighty  mind 
Who  leaves  his  century  far  behind 


BEAUTIFUL  CASCADES.  265 

And  speaks  from  the  Future's  sunlit  snow 

To  the  Present,  that  sleeps  in  its  gloom  below. 

I  stand  unchanged  in  creation's  youth, 

A  glorious  type  of  eternal  truth, 

That,  free  and  pure,  from  its  native  skies 

Shines  through  Oppression's  veil  of  lies, 

And  lights  the  world's  long-fettered  sod 

With  thoughts  of  Freedom  and  of  God. 

When,  at  night,  I  looked  out  of  my  chamber-window,  the 
silver  moon  of  Italy  (for  we  fancied  that  her  light  was 
softer  and  that  the  skies  were  already  bluer)  hung  trem- 
bling above  the  fields  of  snow  that  stretched  in  their  wintry 
brilliance  along  the  mountains  around.  I  heard  the  roar 
of  the  Ticino  and  the  deepened  sound  of  falling  cascades, 
and  thought,  if  I  were  to  take  those  waters  for  my  guide,  to 
what  glorious  places  they  would  lead  me. 

We  left  Airolo  early  the  next  morning,  to  continue  our 
journey  down  the  valley  of  the  Ticino.  The  mists  and 
clouds  of  Switzerland  were  exchanged  for  a  sky  of  the 
purest  blue,  and  we  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  ten  days,  un- 
comfortably warm.  The  mountains  which  flank  the  Alps 
on  this  side  are  still  giants— lofty  and  bare,  and  covered 
with  snow  in  many  places.  The  limit  of  the  German  dialect 
is  on  the  summit  of  St.  Gothard,  and  the  peasants  saluted 
us  with  a  "Buon  giomo  1"  as  they  passed.  This,  with  the 
clearness  of  the  skies  and  the  warmth  of  the  air,  made  us 
feel  that  Italy  was  growing  nearer. 

The  mountains  are  covered  with  forests  of  dark  pine,  and 
many  beautiful  cascades  come  tumbling  over  the  rocks  in 
their  haste  to  join  the  Ticino.  One  of  these  was  so  strangely 
beautiful  that  I  cannot  pass  it  without  a  particular  descrip- 
tion. We  saw  it  soon  after  leaving  Airolo  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  valley.  A  stream  of  considerable  size  comes 
down  the  mountain,  leaping  from  crag  to  crag  till  within 
forty  or  fifty  feet  of  the  bottom,  where  it  is  caught  in  a  hol- 
low rock  and  flung  upward  into  the  air,  forming  a  beautiful 


266  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

arch  as  it  falls  out  into  the  valley.  As  it  is  whirled  up  thus 
feathery  curls  of  spray  are  constantly  driven  off  and  seem 
to  wave  round  it  like  the  fibres  of  an  ostrich-plume.  The 
sun,  shining  through,  gave  it  a  sparry  brilliance  which  was 
perfectly  magnificent.  If  I  were  an  artist,  I  would  give 
much  for  such  a  new  form  of  beauty. 

On  our  first  day's  journey  we  passed  through  two  terrific 
mountain-gorges,  almost  equalling  in  grandeur  the  defile  of 
the  Devil's  Bridge.  The  Ticino,  in  its  course  to  Lago  Mag- 
giore,  has  to  make  a  descent  of  nearly  three  thousand  feet, 
passing  through  three  valleys,  which  lie  like  terraces,  one 
below  the  other.  In  its  course  from  one  to  the  other  it  has 
to  force  its  way  down  in  twenty  cataracts  through  a  cleft  in 
the  mountains.  The  road,  constructed  with  the  utmost 
labor,  threads  these  dark  chasms,  sometimes  carried  in  a 
tunnel  through  the  rock,  sometimes  passing  on  arches  above 
the  boiling  flood.  The  precipices  of  bare  rock  rise  far 
above  and  render  the  way  difficult  and  dangerous.  I  here 
noticed  another  very  beautiful  effect  of  the  water,  perhaps 
attributable  to  some  mineral  substance  it  contained.  The 
spray  and  foam  thrown  up  in  the  dashing  of  the  vexed  cur- 
rent was  of  a  light,  delicate  pink,  although  the  stream  itself 
was  a  soft  blue,  and  the  contrast  of  these  two  colors  was 
very  remarkable. 

As  we  kept  on,  however,  there  was  a  very  perceptible 
change  in  the  scenery.  The  gloomy  pines  disappeared,  and 
the  mountains  were  covered,  in  their  stead,  with  picturesque 
chestnut  trees  with  leaves  of  a  shining  green.  The  grass 
and  vegetation  was  much  more  luxuriant  than  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Alps,  and  fields  of  maize  and  mulberry  orchards 
covered  the  valley.  We  saw  the  people  busy  at  work  reel- 
ing silk  in  the  villages.  Every  mile  we  advanced  made  a 
sensible  change  in  the  vegetation.  The  chestnuts  were 
larger,  the  maize  higher,  the  few  straggling  grape-vines  in- 
creased into  bowers  and  vineyards,  while  the  gardens  were 
filled  with  plum,  pear  and  fig  trees,  and  the  stands  of  deli- 


BOWERS  OF  ARCADIA.  267 

cious  fruit  which  we  saw  in  the  villages  gave  us  promise  of 
the  luxuriance  that  was  to  come. 

The  vineyards  are  much  more  beautiful  than  the  German 
fields  of  stakes.  The  vines  are  not  trimmed,  but  grow  from 
year  to  year  over  a  frame  higher  than  the  head,  sup- 
ported through  the  whole  field  on  stone  pillars.  They  in- 
terlace and  form  a  complete  leafy  screen,  while  the  clusters 
hang  below.  The  light  came  dimly  through  the  green, 
transparent  leaves,  and  nothing  was  wanting  to  make  them 
real  bowers  of  Arcadia.  Although  we  were  still  in  Switz- 
erland, the  people  began  to  have  that  lazy,  indolent  look 
which  characterizes  the  Italians;  most  of  the  occupations 
were  carried  on  in  the  open  air,  and  brown-robed,  sandalled 
friars  were  going  about  .from  house  to  house,  collecting 
money  and  provisions  for  their  support. 

We  passed  Faido  and  Giornico,  near  which  last  village 
are  the  remains  of  an  old  castle  supposed  to  have  been  built 
by  the  ancient  Gauls,  and  stopped  for  the  night  at  Cresci- 
ano ;  which  being  entirely  Italian,  we  had  an  opportumity 
to  put  in  practice  the  few  words  we  had  picked  up  from 
Pietro.  The  little  fellow  parted  from  us  with  regret  a  few 
hours  before,  at  Biasco,  where  he  had  relations.  The  rustic 
landlord  at  Cresciano  was  an  honest  young  fellow  who  tried 
to  serve  us  as  well  as  he  could,  but  we  made  some  ludicrous 
mistakes  through  our  ignorance  of  the  language. 

Three  hours'  walk  brought  us  to  Bellinzona,  the  capital 
of  the  canton.  Before  reaching  it  our  road  joined  that  of 
the  Splugen,  which  comes  down  through  the  valley  of  Ber- 
nardino. From  the  bridge  where  the  junction  takes  place 
we  had  a  triple  view  whose  grandeur  took  me  by  surprise 
even  after  coming  from  Switzerland.  We  stood  at  the 
union  of  three  valleys— that  leading  to  St.  Gothard,  termi- 
nated by  the  glaciers  of  the  Bernese  Oberland,  that  run- 
ning off  obliquely  to  the  Splugen,  and  finally  the  broad 
vale  of  the  Ticino,  extending  to  Lago  Maggiore,  whose  pur- 
ple mountains  closed  the  vista.     Each  valley  was  perhaps 


268  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

two  miles  broad  and  from  twenty  to  thirty  long,  and  the 
mountains  that  enclosed  them  from  five  to  seven  thousand 
feet  in  height ;  so  you  may  perhaps  form  some  idea  what  a 
view  down  three  such  avenues  in  this  Alpine  temple  would 
be.  Bellinzona  is  romantically  situated  on  a  slight  emi- 
nence, with  three  castles  to  defend  it,  with  those  square  tur- 
reted  towers  and  battlements  which  remind  one  involun- 
tarily of  the  days  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals. 

We  left  Bellinzona  at  noon,  and  saw,  soon  after,  from  an 
eminence,  the  blue  line  of  Lago  Maggiore  stretched  across 
the  bottom  of  the  valley.  We  saw  sunset  fade  away  over  the 
lake,  but  it  was  clouded  and  did  not  realize  my  ideal  of  such 
a  scene  in  Italy.  A  band  of  wild  Italians  paraded  up  and 
down  the  village,  drawing  one  of  their  number  in  a  hand- 
cart. They  made  a  great  noise  with  a  drum  and  trumpet,  and 
were  received  everywhere  with  shouts  of  laughter.  A  great 
jug  of  wine  was  not  wanting,  and  the  whole  seemed  to  me  a 
very  characteristic  scene. 

We  were  early  awakened  at  Magadino,  at  the  head  of 
Lago  Maggiore,  and  after  swallowing  a  hasty  breakfast  went 
on  board  the  steamboat  San  Carlo  for  Sesto  Calende.  We 
got  under  way  at  six  o'clock,  and  were  soon  in  motion  over 
the  crystal  mirror.  The  water  is  of  the  most  lovely  green 
hue,  and  so  transparent  that  we  seemed  to  be  floating  in 
mid-air.  Another  heaven  arched  far  below  us  ;  other  chains 
of  mountains  joined  their  bases  to  those  which  surrounded 
the  lake,  and  the  mirrored  cascades  leaped  upward  to  meet 
their  originals  at  the  surface.  It  may  be  because  I  have 
seen  it  more  recently  that  the  water  of  Lago  Maggiore  ap- 
pears to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world.  I  was  delight- 
ed with  the  Scotch  lakes  and  enraptured  with  the  Traunsee 
and  "  Zurich's  waters,"  but  this  last  exceeds  them  both.  I 
am  now  incapable  of  any  stronger  feeling  until  I  see  the 
Egean  from  the  Grecian  isles. 

The  morning  was  cloudy,  and  the  white  wreaths  hung  low 
on  the  mountains,  whose  rocky  sides  were  covered  every- 


THE  BORROMEAN  ISLANDS.  269 

where  with  the  rank  and  luxuriant  growth  of  this  climate. 
As  we  advanced  farther  over  this  glorious  mirror  the  houses 
became  more  Italian-like ;  the  lower  stories  rested  on  arch- 
ed passages,  and  the  windows  were  open,  without  glass, 
while  in  the  gardens  stood  the  solemn,  graceful  cypress,  and 
vines  heavy  with  ripening  grapes  hung  from  bough  to  bough 
through  the  mulberry  orchards.  Halfway  down,  in  a  broad 
bay  which  receives  the  waters  of  a  stream  that  comes  down 
with  the  Simplon,  are  the  celebrated  Borromean  Islands. 
They  are  four  in  number,  and  seem  to  float  like  fairy-crea- 
tions on  the  water,  while  the  lofty  hills  form  a  background 
whose  grandeur  enhances  by  contrast  their  exquisite  beauty. 
There  was  something  in  the  scene  that  reminded  me  of 
Claude  Melnotte's  description  of  his  home  by  Bulwer,  and, 
like  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  I  answer  readily,  "I  like  the 
picture." 

On  passing  by  Isola  Madre  we  could  see  the  roses  in  its 
terraced  gardens  and  the  broad-leaved  aloes  clinging  to  the 
rocks.  Isola  Bella,  the  loveliest  of  them  all,  as  its  name 
denotes,  was  farther  off;  it  rose  like  a  pyramid  from  the 
water,  terrace  above  terrace  to  the  summit,  and  its  gardens 
of  never-fading  foliage,  with  the  glorious  panorama  around, 
might  make  it  a  paradise  if  life  were  to  be  dreamed  away. 
On  the  northern  side  of  the  bay  lies  a  large  town  (I  forget 
its  name)  with  a  lofty  Romanesque  tower,  and  noble  moun- 
tains sweep  around  as  if  to  shut  out  the  world  from  such  a 
scene.  The  sea  was  perfectly  calm,  and  groves  and  gardens 
slept  mirrored  in  the  dark  green  wave,  while  the  Alps  rose 
afar  through  the  dim,  cloudy  air.  Toward  the  other  end 
the  hills  sink  lower  and  slope  off  into  the  plains  of  Lom- 
bardy.  Near  Arona,  on  the  western  side,  is  a  large  monas- 
tery, overlooking  the  lower  part  of  the  lake.  Beside  it,  on 
a  hill,  is  a  colossal  statue  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo,  who  gave 
his  name  to  the  lovely  islands  above. 

After  a  seven  hours'  passage  we  ran  into  Sesto  Calende, 
at  the  foot  of  the  lake.    Here  passengers  and  baggage  were 


270  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

tumbled  promiscuously  on  shore,  the  latter  gathered  into 
the  office  to  be  examined,  and  the  former  left  at  liberty  to 
ramble  about  an  hour  until  their  passports  could  be  signed. 
We  employed  the  time  in  trying  the  flavor  of  the  grapes 
and  peaches  of  Lombardy  and  looking  at  the  groups  of 
travellers  who  had  come  down  from  the  Alps  with  the  an- 
nual avalanche  at  this  season.  The  custom-house  officers 
were  extremely  civil  and  obliging,  as  they  did  not  think 
necessary  to  examine  our  knapsacks,  and,  our  passports  be- 
ing soon  signed,  we  were  at  liberty  to  enter  again  into  the 
dominions  of  His  Majesty  of  Austria.  Our  companion  the 
German,  whose  feet  could  carry  him  no  farther,  took  a  seat 
on  the  top  of  a  diligence  for  Milan  ;  we  left  Sesto  Calende 
on  foot,  and  plunged  into  the  cloud  of  dust  which  was 
whirling  toward  the  capital  of  Northern  Italy. 

Being  now  really  in  the  "  sunny  land,"  we  looked  on  thf* 
scenery  with  a  deep  interest.  The  first  thing  that  struck 
me  was  a  resemblance  to  America  in  the  fields  of  Indian 
corn  and  the  rank  growth  of  weeds  by  the  roadside.  The 
mulberry  trees  and  hedges,  too,  looked  quite  familiar,  com- 
ing, as  we  did,  from  fenceless  and  hedgeless  Germany.  Bnt 
here  the  resemblance  ceased.  The  people  were  coarse,  ig- 
norant and  savage-looking,  the  villages  remarkable  for 
nothing  except  the  contrast  between  splendid  churches  and 
miserable,  dirty  houses,  while  the  luxurious  palaces  and 
grounds  of  the  rich  noblemen  formed  a  still  greater  contrast 
to  the  poverty  of  the  people.  I  noticed  also  that  if  the 
latter  are  as  lazy  as  they  are  said  to  be,  they  make  their 
horses  work  for  them,  as  in  a  walk  of  a  few  hours  yesterday 
afternoon  we  saw  two  horses  drawing  heavy  loads  drop 
down,  apparently  dead,  and  several  others  seemed  nearly 
ready  to  do  the  same. 

We  spent  the  night  at  the  little  village  of  Casina,  about 
sixteen  miles  from  Milan,  and  here  made  our  first  experi- 
ence in  the  honesty  of  Italian  inns.  We  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  inquire  beforehand  the  price  of  a  bed,  but  it 


AN  EXTORTIONATE  HOST.  271 

seemed  unnecessary  and  unpleasant,  as  well  as  evincing  a 
mistrustful  spirit,  to  do  the  same  with  every  article  we  asked 
for ;  so  we  concluded  to  leave  it  to  the  host's  conscience  not 
to  overcharge  us.  Imagine  our  astonishment,  however, 
when,  at  starting,  a  bill  was  presented  to  us  in  which  the 
smallest  articles  were  set  down  at  three  or  four  times  their 
value.  We  remonstrated,  but  to  little  purpose.  The  fel- 
low knew  scarcely  any  French,  and  we  as  little  Italian  ;  so, 
rather  than  lose  time  or  temper,  we  paid  what  he  demanded 
and  went  on,  leaving  him  to  laugh  at  the  successful  impo- 
sition. The  experience  was  of  value  to  us,  however,  and  it 
may  serve  as  a  warning  to  some  future  traveller. 

About  noon  the  road  turned  into  a  broad  and  beautiful 
avenue  of  poplars,  down  which  we  saw  at  a  distance  the 
triumphal  arch  terminating  the  Simplon  road,  which  we 
had  followed  from  Sesto  Calende.  Beyond  it  rose  the  slight 
and  airy  pinnacle  of  the  Duomo.  "We  passed  by  the  ex- 
quisite structure,  gave  up  our  passports  at  the  gates,  trav- 
ersed the  broad  Piazzi  d'Armi,  and  found  ourselves  at  lib- 
erty to  choose  one  of  the  dozen  streets  that  led  into  the  heart 
of  the  city. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

MILAN. 

Attg.  21. 

While  finding  our  way  at  random  to  the  "Pension 
Suisse,"  whither  we  had  been  directed  by  a  German  gentle- 
man, we  were  agreeably  impressed  with  the  gayety  and 
bustle  of  Milan.  The  shops  and  stores  are  all  open  to  the 
street;  so  that  the  city  resembles  a  great  bazaar.  It  has 
an  odd  look  to  see  blacksmiths,  tailors  and  shoemakers 
working  unconcernedly  in  the  open  air  with  crowds  con- 


272  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

tinually  passing  before  them.  The  streets  are  filled  with 
venders  of  fruit,  who  call  out  the  names  with  a  long  dis- 
tressing cry  like  that  of  a  person  in  great  agony.  Organ- 
grinders  parade  constantly  about,  and  snatches  of  songs  are 
heard  among  the  gay  crowd  on  every  side. 

In  this  lively,  noisy  Italian  city  nearly  all  there  is  to  see 
may  be  comprised  in  four  things — the  Duomo,  the  triumphal 
arch  over  the  Simplon,  La  Scala  and  the  picture-gallery. 
The  first  alone  is  more  interesting  than  many  an  entire  city. 
We  went  there  yesterday  afternoon  soon  after  reaching  here. 
It  stands  in  an  irregular  open  place  closely  hemmed  in  by 
houses  on  two  sides ;  so  that  it  can  be  seen  to  advantage 
from  only  one  point.  It  is  a  mixture  of  the  Gothic  and  Ro- 
manesque styles.  The  body  of  the  structure  is  entirely  cov- 
ered with  statues  and  richly-wrought  sculpture,  with  needle- 
like spires  of  white  marble  rising  up  from  every  corner. 
But  of  the  exquisite,  airy  look  of  the  whole  mass,  although 
so  solid  and  vast,  it  is  impossible  to  convey  an  idea.  It  ap- 
pears like  some  fabric  of  frost-work  which  Winter  traces  on 
the  window-panes.  There  is  a  unity  of  beauty  about  the 
whole  which  the  eye  takes  in  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  and 
satisfied  delight. 

Ascending  the  marble  steps  which  lead  to  the  front,  I 
lifted  the  folds  of  the  heavy  curtain  and  entered.  What  a 
glorious  aisle !  The  mighty  pillars  support  a  magnificent 
arched  ceiling  painted  to  resemble  fretwork,  and  the  little 
light  that  falls  through  the  small  windows  above  enters 
tinged  with  a  dim  golden  hue.  A  feeling  of  solemn  awe 
comes  over  one  as  he  steps  with  a  hushed  tread  along  the 
colored  marble  floor  and  measures  the  massive  columns  till 
they  blend  with  the  gorgeous  arches  above.  There  are  four 
rows  of  these — nearly  fifty  in  all — and  when  I  state  that 
they  are  eight  feet  in  diameter  and  sixty  or  seventy  in. 
height,  some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  grandeur  of  the 
building.  Imagine  the  Girard  College,  at  Philadelphia, 
turned  into  one  great  hall  with  four  rows  of  pillars  equal 


THE  DUOMO  OF  MILAN.  273 

in  size  to  those  around  it,  reaching  to  its  roof,  and  you  will 
have  a  rough  sketch  of  the  interior  of  the  Duomo. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cross  is  a  light  and  beautiful  dome. 
He  who  will  stand  under  this  and  look  down  the  broad 
middle  aisle  to  the  entrance  has  one  of  the  sublimest  vistas 
to  be  found  in  the  world.  The  choir  has  three  enormous 
windows  covered  with  dazzling  paintings,  and  the  ceiling  is 
of  marble  and  silver.  There  are  gratings  under  the  high 
altar  by  looking  into  which  I  could  see  a  dark,  lonely  cham- 
ber below  where  one  or  two  feeble  lamps  showed  a  circle  of 
praying-places.  It  was  probably  a  funeral-vault  which  per- 
sons visited  to  pray  for  the  repose  of  their  friends'  souls. 
The  Duomo  is  not  yet  entirely  finished,  the  workmen  being 
still  employed  in  various  parts,  but  it  is  said  that  when 
completed  there  will  be  four  thousand  statues  on  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  it. 

The  design  of  the  Duomo  is  said  to  be  taken  from  Monte 
Rosa,  one  of  the  loftiest  peaks  of  the  Alps.  Its  hundreds 
of  sculptured  pinnacles,  rising  from  every  part  of  the  body 
of  the  church,  certainly  bear  a  striking  resemblance  to  the 
splintered  ice-crags  of  Savoy.  Thus  we  see  how  Art,  mighty 
and  endless  in  her  forms  though  she  be,  is  in  everything 
but  the  child  of  Nature.  Her  most  divine  conceptions  are 
but  copies  of  objects  which  we  behold  every  day.  The 
faultless  beauty  of  the  Corinthian  capital,  the  springing  and 
intermingling  arches  of  the  Gothic  aisle,  the  pillared  portico 
or  the  massive  and  sky-piercing  pyramid,  are  but  attempts 
at  reproducing  by  the  studied  regularity  of  Art  the  ever- 
varied  and  ever-beautiful  forms  of  mountain,  rock  and  for- 
est. But  there  is  oftentimes  a  more  thrilling  sensation  of 
enjoyment  produced  by  the  creations  of  man's  hand  and 
intellect  than  the  grander  effects  of  Nature  existing  con- 
stantly before  our  eyes.  It  would  seem  as  if  man  marvelled 
more  at  his  own  work  than  at  the  work  of  the  Power  which 
created  him. 

The  streets  of  Milan  abound  with  priests  in  their  cocked 

18 


274  VIEWS  A-FOOT.  . 

hats  and  long  black  robes.  They  all  have  the  same  solemn 
air,  and  seem  to  go  about  like  beings  shut  out  from  all  com- 
munion with  pleasure.  No  sight  lately  has  saddened  me 
so  much  as  to  see  a  bright,  beautiful  boy  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  in  those  gloomy  garments.  Poor  child  !  He 
little  knows  now  what  he  may  have  to  endure — a  lonely, 
cheerless  life  where  every  affection  must  be  crushed  as  un- 
holy and  every  pleasure  denied  as  a  crime.  And  I  knew 
by  his  fair  brow  and  tender  lip  that  he  had  a  warm  and 
loving  heart.  I  could  not  help  regarding  this  class  as  vic- 
tims to  a  mistaken  idea  of  religious  duty ;  and  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  I  read  on  more  than  one  countenance  the  traces 
of  passions  that  burned  within.  It  is  mournful  to  see  a 
people  oppressed  in  the  name  of  religion.  The  holiest  as- 
pirations of  man's  nature,  instead  of  lifting  him  up  to  a 
nearer  view  of  Christian  perfection,  are  changed  into  clouds 
and  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven.  Immense  treasures 
wrung  drop  by  drop  from  the  credulity  of  the  poor  and 
ignorant  are  made  use  of  to  pamper  the  luxury  of  those 
who  profess  to  be  mediators  between  man  and  the  Deity. 
The  poor  wretch  may  perish  of  starvation  on  a  floor  of  pre- 
cious mosaic  which  perhaps  his  own  pittance  has  helped  to 
form,  while  ceilings  and  shrines  of  inlaid  gold  mock  his  dy- 
ing eye  with  their  useless  splendor.  Such  a  system  of  op- 
pression, disguised  under  the  holiest  name,  can  only  be  sus- 
tained by  the  continuance  of  ignorance  and  blind  supersti- 
tion. Knowledge,  truth,  reason, — these  are  the  ramparts 
which  Liberty  throws  up  to  guard  her  dominions  from  the 
usurpations  of  oppression  and  wrong. 

We  were  last  night  in  La  Scala.  Rossini's  opera  of  Wil- 
liam Tell  was  advertised,  and,  as  we  had  visited  so  lately 
the  scene  where  that  glorious  historical  drama  was  enacted, 
we  went  to  see  it  represented  in  sound.  It  is  a  grand  sub- 
ject which  in  the  hands  of  a  powerful  composer  might  be 
made  very  effective,  but  I  must  confess  I  was  disappointed 
in  the  present  case.     The  overture  is,  however,  very  beau- 


LA  SCALA.  275 

tiful.  It  begins  low  and  mournful,  like  the  lament  of  the 
Swiss  over  their  fallen  liberties.  Occasionally  a  low  drum 
is  heard,  as  if  to  rouse  them  to  action,  and  meanwhile  the 
lament  swells  to  a  cry  of  despair.  The  drums  now  wake 
the  land ;  the  horn  of  Uri  is  heard  pealing  forth  its  sum- 
moning strain,  and  the  echoes  seem  to  come  back  from  the 
distant  Alps.  The  sound  then  changes  for  the  roar  of  bat- 
tle— the  clang  of  trumpets,  drums  and  cymbals.  The 
whole  orchestra  did  their  best  to  represent  this  combat  in 
music,  which  after  lasting  a  short  time  changed  into  the 
loud  victorious  march  of  the  conquerors.  But  the  body  of 
the  opera,  although  it  had  several  fine  passages,  was  to  me 
devoid  of  interest — in  fact,  unworthy  the  reputation  of 
Rossini. 

The  theatre  is  perhaps  the  largest  in  the  world.  The 
singers  are  all  good ;  in  Italy  it  could  not  be  otherwise, 
where  everybody  sings.  As  I  write  a  party  of  Italians  in 
the  house  opposite  have  been  amusing  themselves  with 
going  through  the  whole  opera  of  La  Fille  du  Regiment 
with  the  accompaniment  of  the  piano,  and  they  show  the 
greatest  readiness  and  correctness  in  their  performance. 
They  have  now  become  somewhat  boisterous,  and  appear 
to  be  improvising.  One  young  gentleman  executes  trills 
with  amazing  skill,  and  another  appears  to  have  taken  the 
part  of  a  despairing  lover ;  but  the  lady  has  a  very  pretty 
voice,  and  warbles  on  and  on  like  a  nightingale.  Occa- 
sionally a  group  of  listeners  in  the  street  below  clap  them 
applause,  for,  as  the  windows  are  always  open,  the  whole 
neighborhood  can  enjoy  the  performance. 

Tli is  forenoon  I  was  in  the  picture-gallery.  It  occupies 
a  part  of  the  library-building,  in  the  Palazzo  Cabrera.  It 
is  not  large,  and  many  of  the  pictures  are  of  no  value  to 
anybody  but  antiquarians ;  still,  there  are  some  excellent 
paintings  which  render  it  well  worthy  a  visit.  Among 
these,  a  marriage  by  Raphael  is  still  in  a  very  good  state 
of  preservation,  and  there  are  some  fine  pictures  by  Paul 


276  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Veronese  and  the  Caracci.  The  most  admired  painting  ia 
"Abraham  sending  away  Hagar,"  by  Guercino.  I  never 
saw  a  more  touching  expression  of  grief  than  in  the  face 
of  Hagar.  Her  eyes  are  red  with  weeping,  and  as  she  listens 
in  an  agony  of  tears  to  the  patriarch's  command  she  still 
seems  doubting  the  reality  of  her  doom.  The  countenance 
of  Abraham  is  venerable  and  calm  and  expresses  little 
emotion,  but  one  can  read  in  that  of  Sarah,  as  she  turns 
away,  a  feeling  of  pity  for  her  unfortunate  rival. 

Next  to  the  Duomo,  the  most  beautiful  specimen  of  archi- 
tecture in  Milan  is  the  arch  of  Peace,  on  the  north  side  of 
the  city,  at  the  commencement  of  the  Simplon  road.  It 
was  the  intention  of  Napoleon  to  carry  the  road  under  this 
arch  across  the  Piazza  d'Armi,  and  to  cut  a  way  for  it  di- 
rectly into  the  heart  of  the  city,  but  the  fall  of  his  dynasty 
prevented  the  execution  of  this  magnificent  design,  as  well 
as  the  completion  of  the  arch  itself.  This  has  been  done 
by  the  Austrian  government  according  to  the  original  plan  ; 
they  have  inscribed  upon  it  the  name  of  Francis  I.  and 
changed  the  bas-reliefs  of  Lodi  and  Marengo  into  those  of 
a  few  fields  where  their  forces  had  gained  the  victory.  It 
is  even  said  that  in  many  parts  which  were  already  fin- 
ished they  altered  the  splendid  Roman  profile  of  Napoleon 
into  the  haggard  and  repulsive  features  of  Francis  of 
Austria. 

The  bronze  statues  on  the  top  were  made  by  an  artist  of 
Bologna  by  Napoleon's  order,  and  are  said  to  be  the  finest 
works  of  modern  times.  In  the  centre  is  the  goddess  of 
Peace  in  a  triumphal  car  drawn  by  six  horses,  while  on  the 
corners,  four  angels,  mounted,  are  starting  off  to  convey 
the  tidings  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  The  artist 
has  caught  the  spirit  of  motion  and  chained  it  in  these 
moveless  figures.  One  would  hardly  feel  surprised  if  the 
goddess,  chariot,  horses  and  all,  were  to  start  off  and  roll 
away  through  the  air. 

With  the  rapidity  usual  to  Americans,  we  have  already 


A  RELIC  OF  THE  PAST.  277 

finished  seeing  Milan,  and  shall  start  to-morrow  morning 
on  a  walk  to  Genoa. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

WALK    FROM   MILAN   TO   GENOA. 

It  was  finally  decided  we  should  leave  Milan  ;  so  the  next 
morning  we  arose  at  five  o'clock  for  the  first  time  since  leav- 
ing Frankfort.  The  Italians  had  commenced  operations  at 
this  early  hour,  but  we  made  our  way  through  the  streets 
without  attracting  quite  so  much  attention  as  on  our  ar- 
rival. Near  the  gate  on  the  road  to  Pavia  we  passed  a  long 
colonnade  which  was  certainly  as  old  as  the  times  of  the 
Romans.  The  pillars  of  marble  were  quite  brown  with 
age,  and  bound  together  with  iron  to  keep  them  from  fall- 
ing to  pieces.  It  was  a  striking  contrast  to  see  this  relic 
of  the  past  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  crowded  thorough- 
fare and  surrounded  by  all  the  brilliance  and  display  of 
modern  trade. 

Once  fairly  out  of  the  city,  we  took  the  road  to  Pavia, 
along  the  banks  of  the  canal,  just  as  the  rising  sun  gilded 
the  marble  spire  of  the  Duomo.  The  country  was  a  perfect 
level,  and  the  canal,  which  was  in  many  places  higher  than 
the  land  through  which  it  passed,  served  also  as  a  means 
of  irrigation  for  the  many  rice-fields.  The  sky  grew  cloudy 
and  dark,  and  before  we  reached  Pavia  gathered  to  a  heavy 
storm.  Torrents  of  rain  poured  down,  accompanied  with 
heavy  thunder;  we  crept  under  an  old  gateway  lor  shelter, 
as  no  house  was  near.  Finally,  as  it  cleared  away,  the 
sijuare  brown  towers  of  the  old  city  rose  above  the  trees, 
and  we  entered  the  gate  through  a  fine  shaded  avenue.  Our 
passports  were,  of  course,  demanded,  but  we  were  only  de- 
tained a  minute  or  two.     The  only  thing  of  interest  is  the 


278  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

university,  formerly  so  celebrated ;  it  has  at  present  about 
eight  hundred  students. 

We  have  reason  to  remember  the  city  from  another  cir- 
cumstance— the  singular  attention  we  excited.  I  doubt  if 
Columbus  was  an  object  of  greater  curiosity  to  the  simple 
natives  of  the  New  World  than  we  three  Americans  were 
to  the  good  people  of  Pavia.  I  know  not  what  part  of  our 
dress  or  appearance  could  have  caused  it,  but  we  were 
watched  like  wild  animals.  If  we  happened  to  pause  and 
look  at  anything  in  the  street,  there  was  soon  a  crowd  of 
attentive  observers,  and  as  we  passed  on  every  door  and 
window  was  full  of  heads.  We  stopped  in  the  market-place 
to  purchase  some  bread  and  fruit  for  dinner,  which  in- 
creased, if  possible,  the  sensation.  We  saw  eyes  staring 
and  fingers  pointing  at  us  from  every  door  and  alley.  I 
am  generally  willing  to  contribute  as  much  as  possible  to 
the  amusement  or  entertainment  of  others,  but  such  atten- 
tion was  absolutely  embarrassing.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  appear  unconscious  of  it,  and  we  went  along  with 
as  much  nonchalance  as  if  the  whole  town  belonged  to  us. 

We  crossed  the  Ticino,  on  whose  banks,  near  Pavia,  was 
fought  the  first  great  battle  between  Hannibal  and  the  Ro- 
mans. On  the  other  side  our  passports  were  demanded  at 
the  Sardinian  frontier  and  our  knapsacks  searched ;  which 
having  proved  satisfactory,  we  were  allowed  to  enter  the 
kingdom.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  reached  the  Po,  which 
in  winter  must  be  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  but  the  summer 
heats  had  dried  it  up  to  a  small  stream ;  so  that  the  bridge 
of  boats  rested  nearly  its  whole  length  in  sand.  We  sat  on 
the  bank  in  the  shade  and  looked  at  the  chain  of  hills 
which  rose 'in  the  south,  following  the  course  of  the  Po, 
crowned  with  castles  and  villages  and  shining  towers.  It 
was  here  that  I  first  began  to  realize  Italian  scenery.  Al- 
though the  hills  were  bare,  they  lay  so  warm  and  glowing 
in  the  sunshine,  and  the  deep  blue  sky  spread  so  calmly 


MAJESTIC  SCENERY.  279 

above,  that  it  recalled  all  my  dreams  of  the  fair  clime  we 
had  entered. 

We  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  little  village  of  Casteg- 
gio,  which  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  and  next  morning 
resumed  our  pilgrimage.  Here  a  new  delight  awaited  us. 
The  sky  was  of  a  heavenly  blue,  without  even  the  shadow 
of  a  cloud,  and  full  and  fair  in  the  morning  sunshine  we 
could  see  the  whole  range  of  the  Alps,  from  the  blue  hills 
of  Friuli,  which  sweep  down  to  Venice  and  the  Adriatic, 
to  the  lofty  peaks  which  stretch  away  to  Nice  and  Mar- 
seilles. Like  a  summer  cloud,  except  that  they  were  far 
more  dazzling  and  glorious,  lay  to  the  north  of  us  the  gla- 
ciers and  untrodden  snow-fields  of  the  Bernese  Oberland  ; 
a  little  to  the  right  we  saw  the  double  peak  of  St.  Gothard, 
where  six  days  before  we  shivered  in  the  region  of  eternal 
winter,  while  far  to  the  north-west  rose  the  giant  dome  of 
Mont  Blanc.  Monte  Rosa  stood  near  him,  not  far  from  the 
Great  St.  Bernard,  and  farther  to  the  south  Mont  Cenis 
guarded  the  entrance  from  Piedmont  into  France.  I  leave 
you  to  conceive  the  majesty  of  such  a  scene,  and  you  may 
perhaps  imagine — for  I  cannot  describe — the  feelings  with 
which  I  gazed  upon  it. 

At  Tortona,  the  next  post,  a  great  market  was  being 
held  ;  the  town  was  filled  with  country-people  selling  their 
produce,  and  with  venders  of  wares  of  all  kinds.  Fruit 
was  very  abundant ;  grapes,  ripe  figs,  peaches  and  melons 
were  abundant,  and  for  a  trifle  one  could  purchase  a  sump- 
tuous banquet.  On  inquiring  the  road  to  Novi,  the  people 
made  us  understand,  after  much  difficulty,  that  there  was  a 
neai'er  way  across  the  country  which  came  into  the  post- 
road  again,  and  we  concluded  to  take  it.  A,fter  two  or 
three  hours'  walking  in  a  burning  sun,  where  our  only  re- 
lief was  the  sight  of  the  Alps  and  a  view  of  the  battlefield 
of  Marengo,  which  lay  just  on  our  right,  we  came  to  a 
stand  :  the  road  terminated  at  a  large  stream  where  work- 
men were  busily  engaged  in  making  a  bridge  across.     We 


280  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

pulled  off  our  boots  and  waded  through,  took  a  refreshing 
bath  iu  the  clear  waters  and  walked  on  through  by-lanes. 
The  sides  were  lined  with  luxuriant  vines  bending  under 
the  ripening  vintage,  and  we  often  cooled  our  thirst  with 
some  of  the  rich  bunches. 

The  large  branch  of  the  Po  we  crossed  came  down  from 
the  mountains  which  we  were  approaching.  As  we  reached 
the  post-road  again  they  were  glowing  in  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun,  and  the  evening  vapors  that  settled  over  the  plain 
concealed  the  distant  Alps,  although  the  snowy  top  of  the 
Jungfrau  and  her  companions  the  Wetterhorn  and  Schreck- 
horn  rose  above  it  like  the  hills  of  another  world.  A  cas- 
tle or  church  of  brilliant  white  marble  glittered  on  the 
summit  of  one  of  the  mountains  near  us,  and,  as  the  sun 
went  down  without  a  cloud,  the  distant  summits  changed 
in  hue  to  a  glowing  purple,  amounting  almost  to  crimson, 
which  afterward  darkened  into  a  deep  violet.  The  western 
half  of  the  sky  was  of  a  pale  orange  and  the  eastern  a 
dark  red,  which  blended  together  in  the  blue  of  the  zenith, 
that  deepened  as  twilight  came  on.  I  know  not  if  it  was  a 
fair  specimen  of  an  Italian  sunset,  but  I  must  say,  without 
wishing  to  be  partial,  that,  though  certainly  very  soft  and 
beautiful,  there  is  no  comparison  with  the  splendor  of  such 
a  scene  in  America.  The  day-sky  of  Italy  better  deserves 
its  reputation.  Although  no  clearer  than  our  own,  it  is  of 
a  far  brighter  blue,  arching  above  us  like  a  dome  of  sap- 
phire and  seeming  to  sparkle  all  over  with  a  kind  of  crystal 
transparency. 

We  stopped  the  second  night  at  Arquato,  a  little  village 
among  the  mountains,  and  after  having  bargained  with  the 
merry  landlord  for  our  lodgings  in  broken  Italian  took  a 
last  look  at  the  plains  of  Piedmont  and  the  Swiss  Alps  in 
the  growing  twilight.  We  gazed  out  on  the  darkening 
scene  till  the  sky  was  studded  with  stars,  and  went  to  rest 
with  the  exciting  thought  of  seeing  Genoa  and  the  Medi- 


A  PRIESTLY  BENEDICTION.  281 

terranean  on  the  morrow.  Next  morning  we  started  early, 
and  after  walking  some  distance  made  our  breakfast  in  a 
grove  of  chestnuts,  on  the  cool  mountain-side,  beside  a 
fresh  stream  of  water.  The  sky  shone  like  a  polished  gem 
and  the  glossy  leaves  of  the  chestnuts  gleamed  in  the  morn- 
ing sun.  Here  and  there  on  a  rocky  height  stood  the  re- 
mains of  some  knightly  castle  telling  of  the  Goths  and 
Normans  who  descended  through  these  mountain-passes  to 
plunder  Rome. 

As  the  sun  grew  high  the  heat  and  dust  became  intoler- 
able, and  this,  in  connection  with  the  attention  we  raised 
everywhere,  made  us  somewhat  tired  of  foot-travelling  in 
Italy.     I  verily  believe  the  people  took  us  for  pilgrims  on 
account  of  our  long  white  blouses,  and  had  I  a  scallop- 
shell  I  would  certainly  have  stuck  it  into  my  hat  to  com- 
plete the  appearance.     We  stopped  once  to  ask  a  priest  the 
road ;  when  he  had  told  us,  he  shook  hands  with  us  and 
gave  us  a  parting  benediction.     At  the  common  inns  where 
we  stopped  we  always   met  with  civil  treatment,  though, 
indeed,  as  we  only  slept  in  them,  there  was  little  chance  of 
practising  imposition.     We  bought  our  simple  meals  at  the 
baker's  and  grocer's,  and  ate  them  in  the  shade  of  the  grape- 
bowers,  whose  rich  clusters  added  to  the  repast.     In  this 
manner  we  enjoyed  Italy  at  the  expense  of  a  franc  daily. 
About  noon,  after  winding  about  through  the  narrow  de- 
files, the  road  began  ascending.     The  reflected  heat  from 
the  hills  on  each  side  made  it  like  an  oven.     There  was  not 
a  breath  of  air  stirring,  but  we  all  felt,  although  no  one 
said  it,  that  from  the  summit  we  could  see  the  Mediterra- 
nean, and  we  pushed  on  as  if  life  or  death  depended  on  it. 
Finally  the  highest  point  came  in  sight.     We  redoubled 
our  exertions,  and  a  few  minutes  more  brought  us  to  the 
top,  breathless  with  fatigue   and  expectation.     I  glanced 
down  the  other  side.     There  lay  a  real  sea  of  mountains  all 
around  ;  the  farthest  peaks  rose  up  afar  and  dim,  crowned 
with  white  towers,  and  between  two  of  them  which  stood 


282  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

apart  like  the  pillars  of  a  gateway  we  saw  the  broad  ex- 
panse of  water  stretching  away  to  the  horizon — 

"  To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shut  down." 

It  would  have  been  a  thrilling  sight  to  see  any  ocean 
when  one  has  rambled  thousands  of  miles  among  the 
mountains  and  vales  of  the  inland,  but  to  behold  this  sea, 
of  all  others,  was  glorious  indeed— this  sea,  whose  waves 
wash  the  feet  of  Naples,  Constantinople  and  Alexandria 
and  break  on  the  hoary  shores  where  Troy  and  Tyre  and 
Carthage  have  mouldered  away,  whose  breast  has  been  fur- 
rowed by  the  keels  of  a  hundred  nations  through  more  than 
forty  centuries — from  the  first  rude  voyage  of  Jason  and 
his  Argonauts  to  the  thunders  of  Navarino  that  heralded  the 
second  birth  of  Greece.  You  cannot  wonder  we  grew  ro- 
mantic ;  but  short  space  was  left  for  sentiment  in  the  burn- 
ing sun,  with  Genoa  to  be  reached  before  night.  The 
mountain  we  crossed  is  called  the  Bochetta,  one  of  the  loft- 
iest of  the  sea- Alps,  or  Apennines.  The  road  winds  steeply 
down  toward  the  sea,  following  a  broad  mountain-rivulet, 
now  perfectly  dried  up,  as  nearly  every  stream  among  the 
mountains  is.  It  was  a  long  way  to  us;  the  mountains 
seemed  as  if  they  would  never  unfold  and  let  us  out  on  the 
shore,  and  our  weary  limbs  did  penance  enough  for  a  mul- 
titude of  sins.  The  dusk  was  beginning  to  deepen  over  the 
bay  and  the  purple  hues  of  sunset  were  dying  away  from 
its  amphitheatre  of  hills  as  we  came  in  sight  of  the  gorgeous 
city.  Half  the  population  were  out  to  celebrate  a  festival, 
and  we  made  our  entry  in  the  triumphal  procession  of  some 
saint. 


THE  MEDITERRANEAN.  283 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

SCENES   IN   GENOA,    LEGHORN   AND   PISA. 

Have  you  ever  seen  some  grand  painting  of  a  city  rising 
with  its  domes  and  towers  and  palaces  from  the  edge  of  a 
glorious  bay  shut  in  by  mountains,  the  whole  scene  clad  in 
those  deep,  delicious,  sunny  hues  which ^'ou  admire  so  much 
in  the  picture,  although  they  appear  unrealized  in  Nature? 
If  so,  you  can  figure  to  yourself  Genoa  as  she  looked  to  us 
at  sunset  from  the  battlements  west  of  the  city.     When  we 
had  passed  through  the  gloomy  gate  of  the  fortress  that 
guards  the  western  promontory,  the  whole  scene  opened  at 
once  on  us  in  all  its  majesty.     It  looked  to  me  less  like  a 
real  landscape  than   a  mighty  panoramic  painting.     The 
battlements  where  we  were  standing,  and  the  blue  mirror 
of  the  Mediterranean  just  below,  with  a  few  vessels  moored 
near  the  shore,  made  up  the  foreground  ;  just  in  front  lay 
the  queenly  city,  stretching  out  to  the  eastern  point  of  the 
bay  like  a  great  meteor,  this  point  crowned  with  the  towers 
and  dome  of  a  cathedral  representing  the  nucleus,  while  the 
tail  gradually  widened  out  and  was  lost  among  the  number- 
less villas  that  reached  to  the  top  of  the  mountains  behind.  A 
mole  runs  nearly  across  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  with  a  tall 
lighthouse  at  its  extremity,  leaving  only  a  narrow  passage 
for  vessels.     As  we  gazed  a  purple  glow  lay  on  the  bosom 
of  the  sea,  while  far  beyond  the  city  the  eastern  half  of  the 
mountain-crescent  around  the  gulf  was  tinted  with  the  love- 
liest hue  of  orange.     The  impressions  which   one  derives 
from  looking  on  remarkable  scenery  depend  for  much  of 
their  effect  on  the  time  and  weather.     I  have  been  very  for- 
tunate in  this  respect  in  two  instances,  and  shall  carry  with 
me  through  life  two  glorious  pictures  of  a  very  different 
character — the  wild  sublimity  of  the  Brocken  in  cloud  and 
storm,  and  the  splendor  of  Genoa  in  an  Italian  sunset. 


284  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Genoa  has  been  called  the  "  city  of  palaces,"  and  it  well 
deserves  the  appellation.  Row  above  row  of  magnificent 
structures  rise  amid  gardens  along  the  side  of  the  hills,  and 
many  of  the  streets,  though  narrow  and  crooked,  are  lined 
entirely  with  the  splendid  dwellings  of  the  Genoese  nobles. 
All  these  speak  of  the  republic  in  its  days  of  wealth  and 
power,  when  it  could  cope  successfully  with  Venice  and 
Doria  could  threaten  to  bridle  the  horses  of  St.  Mark.  At 
present  its  condition*is  far  different ;  although  not  so  fallen 
as  its  rival,  it  is  but  a  shadow  of  its  former  self.  The  life 
and  energy  it  possessed  as  a  republic  has  withered  away 
under  the  grasp  of  Tyranny. 

We  entered  Genoa,  as  I  have  already  said,  in  a  religious 
procession.  On  passing  the  gate  we  saw,  from  the  concourse 
of  people  and  the  many  banners  hanging  from  the  windows 
or  floating  across  the  streets,  that  it  was  the  day  of  a  festa. 
Before  entering  the  city  we  reached  the  procession  itself, 
which  was  one  of  unusual  solemnity.  As  it  was  impossible 
in  the  dense  crowd  to  pass  it,  we  struggled  through  till  we 
reached  a  good  point  for  seeing  the  whole,  and  slowly  moved 
on  with  it  through  the  city.  First  went  a  company  of  boys 
in  white  robes;  then  followed  a  body  of  friars  dressed  in 
long  black  cassocks  and  with  shaven  crowns ;  then  a  com- 
pany of  soldiers  with  a  band  of  music  ;  then  a  body  of  nuns 
wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  blue  robes,  leaving  only  a 
small  place  to  see  out  of:  in  the  dusk  they  looked  very  sol- 
emn and  ghostlike,  and  their  low  chant  had  to  me  some- 
thing awful  and  sepulchral  in  it ;  then  followed  another 
company  of  friars,  and  after  that  a  great  number  of  priests 
in  white  and  black  robes,  bearing  the  statue  of  the  saint, 
with  a  pyramid  of  flowers,  crosses  and  blazing  wax  tapers, 
while  companies  of  soldiery,  monks  and  music  brought  up 
the  rear.  Armed  guards  walked  at  intervals  on  each  side 
of  the  procession,  to  keep  the  way  clear  and  prevent  dis- 
turbance ;  two  or  three  bands  played  solemn  airs,  alter- 
nating with  the  deep  monotonous  chanting  of  the  friars. 


A  FINANCIAL  BLUNDER.  285 

The  whole  scene,  dimly  lighted  by  the  wax  tapers,  produced 
in  me  a  feeling  nearly  akin  to  fear,  as  if  I  were  witnessing 
some  ghostly,  unearthly  spectacle.  To  rites  like  these,  how- 
ever, which  occur  every  few  weeks,  the  people  must  be  well 
accustomed. 

Among  the  most  interesting  objects  in  Genoa  is  the  Doria 
palace,  fit  in  its  splendor  for  a  monarch's  residence.  It 
stands  in  the  Strada  Nova,  one  of  the  three  principal  streets, 
and,  I  believe,  is  still  in  the  possession  of  the  family.  There 
are  many  others  through  the  city  scarcely  less  magnificent, 
among  which  that  of  the  Durazzo  family  may  be  pointed 
out.  The  American  consulate  is  in  one  of  these  old  edifices, 
with  a  fine  court-yard  and  ceilings  covered  with  frescos. 
Mr.  Moro,  the  vice-consul,  did  us  a  great  kindness,  which  I 
feel  bound  to  acknowledge,  although  it  will  require  the  dis- 
closure of  some  private,  and  perhaps  uninteresting,  circum- 
stances. 

On  leaving  Frankfort  we  converted,  for  the  sake  of  con- 
venience, the  greater  part  of  our  funds  into  a  draft  on  a 
Saxon  merchant  in  Leghorn,  reserving  just  enough,  as  we 
supposed,  to  take  us  thither.     As   in  our   former  case   in 
Germany,  the  sum  was  too  small,  which  we  found,  to  our 
dismay,  on  reaching  Milan.     Notwithstanding  we  had  trav- 
elled the  whole  ninety  miles  from  that  city  to  Genoa  for 
three  francs  each,  in  the  hope  of  having  enough  left  to  en- 
able one,  at  least,  to  visit  Leghorn,  the  expenses  for  a  pass- 
port in  Genoa  (more  than  twenty  francs)  prevented  this 
plan.     I   went  therefore  to   the   vice-consul   to   ascertain 
whether  the  merchant  on  whom  the  draft  was  drawn  had 
any  correspondents  there  who  might  advance  a  portion  of 
it.     His  secretary  made  many  inquiries,  but  without  effect. 
Mr.  Moro  then  generously  offered  to  furnish  me  with  means 
to  reach  Leghorn,  whence  I  could  easily  remit  a  sufficient 
sum  to  my  two  comrades.     This  put  an  end  to  our  anxiety 
(for  I  must  confess  we  could  not  help  feeling  some),  and  I 
therefore  prepared  to  leave  that  evening  in  the  Yirgilio. 


286  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

The  feelings  with  which  I  look  on  this  lovely  land  are 
fast  changing.  What  with  the  dust  and  heat  and  cheating 
landlords  and  the  dull  plains  of  Loinbardy,  my  first  ex- 
perience was  not  very  prepossessing.  But  the  joyous  and 
romantic  anticipation  with  which  I  looked  forward  to  real- 
izing the  dream  of  my  earliest  boyhood  is  now  beginning  to 
be  surpassed  by  the  exciting  reality.  Every  breath  I  drew 
in  the  city  of  Columbus  and  Doria  was  deeply  tinctured 
with  the  magic  of  history  and  romance.  It  was  like  enter- 
ing on  a  new  existence  to  look  on  scenes  so  lovely  by  nature 
and  so  filled  with  the  inspiring  memories  of  old : 

"  Italia,  too — Italia !    Looking  on  thee, 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages. 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages, 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires." 

The  Virgilio  was  advertised  to  leave  at  six  o'clock,  and  I 
accordingly  went  out  to  her  in  a  little  boat  half  an  hour 
beforehand ;  but  we  were  delayed  much  longer,  and  I  saw 
sunset  again  fade  over  the  glorious  amphitheatre  of  palaces 
and  mountains  with  the  same  orange  glow,  the  same  purple 
and  crimson  flush  deepening  into  twilight,  as  before.  An 
old  blind  man  in  a  skiff  floated  around  under  the  bows  of 
the  boat  on  the  glassy  water,  singing  to  the  violin  a  plain- 
tive air  that  appeared  to  be  an  evening  hymn  to  the  Virgin. 
There  was  something  very  touching  in  his  venerable  coun- 
tenance, with  the  sightless  eyes  turned  upwaid  to  the  sunset 
heaven  whose  glory  he  could  nevermore  behold. 

The  lamps  were  lit  on  the  tower  at  the  end  of  the  mole 
as  we  glided  out  on  the  open  sea.  I  stood  on  deck  and 
watched  the  receding  lights  of  the  city  till  they  and  the 
mountains  above  them  were  blended  with  the  darkened  sky. 
The  sea-breeze  was  fresh  and  cool,  and  the  stars  glittered 
with  a  frosty  clearness  which  would  have  made  the  night 


NAPOLEON'S  PRISON-KINGDOM.  287 

delicious  had  not  a  slight  rolling  of  the  waves  obliged  me 
to  go  below.  Here,  besides  being  half  sea-sick,  I  was 
placed  at  the  mercy  of  many  voracious  fleas,  who  obsti- 
nately stayed,  persisting  in  keeping  me  company.  This  was 
the  first  time  I  had  suffered  from  these  cannibals,  and  such 
were  my  torments  I  almost  wished  some  bloodthirsty  Italian 
would  come  and  put  an  end  to  them  with  his  stiletto. 

The  first  ray  of  dawn  that  stole  into  the  cabin  sent  me  on 
deck.  The  hills  of  Tuscany  lay  in  front,  sharply  outlined 
on  the  reddening  sky ;  near  us  was  the  steep  and  rocky  isle 
of  Gorgona,  and  far  to  the  south-west,  like  a  low  mist  along 
the  water,  ran  the  shores  of  Corsica,  the  birthplace  of  Colum- 
bus and  Napoleon*  As  the  dawn  brightened  we  saw  on 
the  southern  horizon  a  cloud-like  island  also  imperishably 
connected  with  the  name  of  the  latter — the  prison-kingdom 
of  Elba.  North  of  us  extended  the  rugged  mountains  of 
Carrara,  that  renowned  range  whence  has  sprung  many  a 
form  of  almost  breathing  beauty,  and  where  yet  slumber, 
perhaps,  in  the  unhewn  marble  the  godlike  shapes  of  an 
age  of  art  more  glorious  than  any  the  world  has  ever  yet 
beheld. 

The  sun  rose  from  behind  the  Apennines,  and  masts  and 
towers  became  visible  through  the  golden  haze  as  we  ap- 
proached the  shore.  On  a  flat  space  between  the  sea  and 
the  hills,  not  far  from  the  foot  of  Montenero,  stands  Leg- 
horn. The  harbor  is  protected  by  a  mole,  leaving  a  narrow 
passage,  through  which  we  entered  ;  and  after  waiting  two 
hours  for  the  visit  of  the  health-  and  police-officers,  we  were 
permitted  to  go  on  shore.  The  first  thing  that  struck  me 
was  the  fine  broad  streets ;  the  second,  the  motley  character 
of  the  population.  People  were  hurrying  about  noisy  and 
bustling — Greeks  in  their  red  caps  and  capotes,  grave  tur- 
baned  and  bearded  Turks,  dark  Moors,  the  corsair-looking 
natives  of  Tripoli  and  Tunis  and  seamen  of  nearly  every 

*  By  recent  registers  found  in  Corsica,  it  lias  been  determined  that 
this  island  also  gave  birth  to  the  discoverer  of  the  New  World. 


288  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

nation.  At  the  hotel  where  I  stayed  we  had  a  singular 
mixture  of  nations  at  dinner — two  French,  two  Swiss,  one 
Genoese,  one  Roman,  one  American  and  one  Turk,  and  we 
were  waited  on  by  a  Tuscan  and  an  Arab.  We  conversed 
together  in  four  languages  all  at  once. 

To  the  merchant  Leghorn  is  of  more  importance  than  to 
the  traveller.  Its  extensive  trade — not  only  in  the  manu- 
factures of  Tuscany,  but  also  in  the  productions  of  the  Le- 
vant— makes  it  important  to  the  former,  while  the  latter 
seeks  in  vain  for  fine  buildings,  galleries  of  art  or  interest- 
ing historical  reminiscences.  Through  the  kind  attention 
of  the  Saxon  consul,  to  whom  I  had  letters,  two  or  three 
days  went  by  delightfully. 

The  only  place  of  amusement  here  in  summer  is  a 
drive  along  the  seashore — called  the  Ardenza — which  is 
frequented  every  evening  by  all  who  can  raise  a  vehicle.  I 
visited  it  twice  with  a  German  friend.  We  met  one  even- 
ing the  princess  Corsini,  wife  of  the  governor  of  Leghorn, 
on  horseback — a  young  but  not  pretty  woman.  The  road 
leads  out  along  the  Mediterranean,  past  an  old  fortress,  to 
a  large  establishment  for  the  sea-bathers,  where  it  ends  in 
a  large  ring  around  which  the  carriages  pass  and  repass 
until  sunset  has  gone  out  over  the  sea,  when  they  return  to 
the  city  in  a  mad  gallop  or  as  fast  as  the  lean  horses  can 
draw  them. 

In  driving  around  we  met  two  or  three  carriages  of 
Turks,  in  one  of  which  I  saw  a  woman  of  Tunis  with  a  cu- 
rious gilded  headdress  eighteen  inches  in  height. 

I  saw  one  night  a  Turkish  funeral.  It  passed  me  in  one 
of  the  outer  streets  on  its  way  to  the  Turkish  burying- 
ground.  Those  following  the  coffin — which  was  covered 
with  a  heavy  black  pall — wore  white  turbans  and  long 
white  robes,  the  mourning-color  of  the  Turks.  Torches 
were  borne  by  attendants,  and  the  whole  company  passed 
on  at  a  quick  pace.  Seen  thus  by  night,  it  had  a  strange 
and  spectral  appearance. 


A  REVOLTING   SPECTACLE.  289 

There  is  another  spectacle  here  which  was  exceedingly 
revolting  to  me.  The  condemned  criminals,  chained  two 
and  two,  are  kept  at  work  through  the  city  cleaning  the 
streets.  They  are  dressed  in  coarse  garments  of  a  dirty  red 
color,  with  the  name  of  the  crime  for  which  they  were  con- 
victed painted  on  the  back.  I  shuddered  to  see  so  many 
marked  with  the  works  "Omicidio  Premeditato."  All  day 
they  are  thus  engaged,  exposed  to  the  scorn  and  contu- 
mely of  the  crowd,  and  at  night  dragged  away  to  he  incar- 
cerated in  damp,  unwholesome  dungeons  excavated  under 
the  public  thoroughfares.  The  employment  of  criminals  in 
this  way  is  common  in  Italy.  Two  days  after  crossing  St. 
Gothard  we  saw  a  company  of  abject-looking  creatures  eating 
their  dinner  by  the  roadside,  near  Bellinzona.  One  of  them 
had  a  small  basket  of  articles  of  cotton  and  linen,  and  as  he 
rose  up  to  offer  them  to  us  I  was  startled  by  the  clank  of 
fetters.     They  were  all  employed  to  labor  on  the  road. 

On  going  down  to  the  wharf  in  Leghorn,  in  the  morning, 
two  or  three  days  ago,  I  found  F and  B just  step- 
ping on  shore  from  the  steamboat,  tired  enough  of  the  dis- 
comforts of  the  voyage,  yet  anxious  to  set  out  for  Florence 
as  soon  as  possible.  After  we  had  shaken  off  the  crowd  of 
porters,  pedlers  and  vethirini  and  taken  a  hasty  breakfast  at 
the  Cafe  Americano,  we  went  to  the  police-office  to  get  our 
passports,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  paying  two  francs  for 
permission  to  proceed  to  Florence.  The  weather  had 
changed  since  the  preceding  day,  and  the  sirocco-wind, 
which  blows  over  from  the  coast  of  Africa,  filled  the  streets 
with  clouds  of  dust,  which  made  walking  very  unpleasant. 
The  clear  blue  sky  had  vanished  and  a  leaden  cloud  hung 
low  on  the  Mediterranean,  hiding  the  shores  of  Corsica  and 
the  rocky  isles  of  Gorgona  and  Capraja. 

The  country  between  Leghorn  and  Pisa  is  a  flat  marsh 
intersected  in  several  places  by  canals  to  carry  oft*  the  stag- 
nant water  which  renders  this  district  so  unhealthy.     It  is 
said  that  the  entire  plain  between  the  mountains  of  Car- 
19 


290  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rara  and  the  hills  back  of  Leghorn  has  been  gradually 
formed  by  the  deposits  of  the  Arno  and  the  receding  of  the 
Mediterranean,  which  is  so  shallow  along  the  whole  coast 
that  large  vessels  have  to  anchor  several  miles  out.  As  we 
approached  Pisa  over  the  level  marsh  I  could  see  the  dome 
of  the  cathedral  and  the  Leaning  Tower  rising  above  the 
gardens  and  groves  which  surround  it. 

Our  baggage  underwent  another  examination  at  the  gate, 
where  we  were  again  assailed  by  the  vetturlni,  one  of  whom 
hung  on  us  like  a  leech  till  we  reached  a  hotel,  and  there 
was  finally  no  way  of  shaking  him  off  except  by  engaging 
him  to  take  us  to  Florence.  The  bargain  having  been  con- 
cluded, we  had  still  a  few  hours  left,  and  set  off  to  hunt  the 
cathedral.  We  found  it  on  an  open  square  near  the  outer 
wall  and  quite  remote  from  the  main  part  of  the  town. 
Emerging  from  the  narrow  and  winding  street,  one  takes  in 
at  a  glance  the  baptistery,  the  Compo  Santo,  the  noble 
cathedral  and  the  Leaning  Tower,  forming  altogether  a 
view  rarely  surpassed  in  Europe  for  architectural  effect. 
But  the  square  is  melancholy  and  deserted,  and  rank,  un- 
trampled  grass  fills  the  crevices  of  its  marble  pavement. 

I  wras  surprised  at  the  beauty  of  the  Leaning  Tower. 
Instead  of  an  old  black,  crumbling  fabric,  as  I  always  sup- 
posed, it  is  a  light,  airy,  elegant  structure  of  white  marble, 
and  its  declension — which  is  interesting  as  a  work  of  art  (or 
accident) — is  at  the  same  time  pleasing  from  its  novelty. 
There  have  been  many  conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of  this 
deviation,  which  is  upward  of  fourteen  feet  from  the  per- 
pendicular; it  is  now  generally  believed  that,  the  earth 
having  sunk  when  the  building  was  half  finished,  it  was 
continued  by  the  architects  in  the  same  angle.  The  upper 
gallery,  which  is  smaller  than  the  others,  shows  a  very  per- 
ceptible inclination  back  toward  the  perpendicular,  as  if  in 
some  degree  to  counterbalance  the  deviation  of  the  other 
part.     There  are    eight    galleries    in    all,   supported    by 


ANGELIC  HARMONY.  291 

marble  pillars,  but  the  inside  of  the  tower  is  hollow  to  the 
very  top. 

We  ascended  by  the  same  stairs  which  were  trodden  so 
often  by  Galileo  in  going  up  to  make  his  astronomical  obser- 
vations. In  climbing  spirally  around  the  hollow  cylinder 
in  the  dark  it  was  easy  to  tell  on  which  side  of  the  tower 
we  were,  from  the  proportionate  steepness  of  the  staircase. 
There  is  a  fine  view  from  the  top,  embracing  the  whole 
plain  as  far  as  Leghorn  on  one  side,  with  its  gardens  and 
grainfields  spread  out  like  a  vast  map.  In  a  valley  of  the 
Carrarese  Mountains,  to  the  north,  we  could  see  the  little 
town  of  Lucca,  much  frequented  at  this  season  on  account 
of  its  baths ;  the  blue  summits  of  the  Apennines  shut  in 
the  view  to  the  east.  In  walking  through  the  city  I  noticed 
two  other  towers,  which  had  nearly  as  great  a  deviation 
from  the  perpendicular. 

We  met  a  person  who  had  the  key  of  the  baptistery, 
which  he  opened  for  us.  Two  ancient  columns  covered 
with  rich  sculpture  form  the  doorway,  and  the  dome  is  sup- 
ported by  massive  pillars  of  the  red  marble  of  Elba.  The 
baptismal  font  is  of  the  purest  Parian  marble.  The  most 
remarkable  thing  was  the  celebrated  musical  echo.  Our 
cicerone  stationed  himself  at  the  side  of  the  font  and  sang 
a  few  notes.  After  a  moment's  pause  they  were  repeated 
aloft  in  the  dome,  but  with  a  sound  of  divine  sweetness  as 
clear  and  pure  as  the  clang  of  a  crystal  bell.  Another 
pause,  and  we  heard  them  again,  higher,  fainter  and 
sweeter,  followed  by  a  dying  note,  as  if  they  were  fading 
far  away  into  heaven.  It  seemed  as  if  an  angel  lingered 
in  the  temple  echoing  with  his  melodious  lips  the  common 
harmonies  of  earth.  Even  thus  does  the  music  of  good 
deeds  hardly  noted  in  our  grosser  atmosphere  awake  a  di- 
vine echo  in  the  far  world  of  spirit. 

The  Campo  Santo,  on  the  north  side  of  the  cathedral, 
was  until  lately  the  cemetery  of  the  city ;  the  space  en- 
closed within  its  marble  galleries  is  filled  to  the  depth  of 


292  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

eight  or  ten  feet  with  earth  from  the  Holy  Land.  The  ves- 
sels which  carried  the  knights  of  Tuscany  to  Palestine  were 
filled  at  Joppa,  on  returning,  with  this  earth  as  ballast,  and 
on  arriving  at  Pisa  it  was  deposited  in  the  cemetery.  It 
has  the  peculiar  property  of  decomposing  all  human  bodies 
in  the  space  of  two  days.  A  colonnade  of  marble  encloses 
it,  with  windows  of  the  most  exquisite  sculpture  opening  on 
the  inside.  They  reminded  me  of  the  beautiful  Gothic 
oriels  of  Melrose.  At  each  end  are  two  fine  green  cy- 
presses, which  thrive  remarkably  in  the  soil  of  Palestine. 
The  dust  of  a  German  emperor,  among  others,  rests  in  this 
consecrated  ground.  There  are  other  fine  churches  in  Pisa, 
but  the  four  buildings  I  have  mentioned  are  the  principal 
objects  of  interest.  The  tower  where  Count  Ugolino  and 
his  sons  were  starved  to  death  by  the  citizens  of  Pisa,  who 
locked  them  up  and  threw  the  keys  into  the  Arno,  has 
lately  been  destroyed. 

An  Italian  gentleman  having  made  a  bargain  in  the  mean 
time  with  our  vetturino,  we  found  everything  ready  on  re- 
turning to  the  hotel.  On  the  outside  of  the  town  we 
mounted  into  the  vehicle — a  rickety-looking  concern — and, 
as  it  commenced  raining,  I  was  afraid  we  would  have  a 
bad  night  of  it.  After  a  great  deal  of  bargaining  the 
vetturino  agreed  to  take  us  to  Florence  that  night  for  five 
francs  apiece,  provided  one  person  would  sit  on  the  outside 
with  the  driver.  I  accordingly  mounted  on  front,  protected 
by  a  blouse  and  umbrella,  for  it  was  beginning  to  rain  dis- 
mally. The  miserable  bare-boned  horses  were  fastened 
with  rope-traces,  and  the  vetturino,  having  taken  the  rope- 
lines  in  his  hand,  gave  a  flourish  with  his  whip.  One  old 
horse  tumbled  nearly  to  the  ground,  but  he  jerked  him  up 
aeain,  and  we  rattled  off. 

After  riding  ten  miles  in  this  way,  it  became  so  wet  and 
dreary  that  I  was  fain  to  give  the  driver  two  francs  extra 
for  the  privilege  of  an  inside  seat.  Our  Italian  companion 
was  agreeable  and  talkative,  but,  as  we  were  still  ignorant 


ARRIVAL  AT  FLORENCE.  293 

of  the  language,  I  managed  to  hold  a  scanty  conversation 
with  him  in  French.  He  seemed  delighted  to  learn  that  we 
were  from  America  ;  his  polite  reserve  gave  place  to  a 
friendly  familiarity,  and  he  was  loud  in  his  praises  of  the 
Americans.  I  asked  him  why  it  was  that  he,  and  the  Ital- 
ians generally,  were  so  friendly  toward  us.  "  I  hardly 
know,"  he  answered ;  "  you  are  so  different  from  any  other 
nation.     And  then,  too,  you  have  so  much  sincerity." 

The  Apennines  were  wreathed  and  hidden  in  thick  mist, 
and  the  prospect  over  the  flat  cornfields  bordering  the  road 
was.  not  particularly  interesting.  We  had  made  about  one- 
third  of  the  way  as  night  set  in,  when,  on  ascending  a  hill 

soon  after  dark,  F happened  to  look,  out  and  saw  one 

of  the  axles  bent  and  nearly  broken  off.  We  were  obliged 
to  get  out  and  walk  through  the  mud  to  the  next  village, 
when,  after  two  hours'  delay,  the  vetturino  came  along  with 
another  carriage. 

Of  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Florence  I  cannot  say  much. 
Cramped  up  in  the  narrow  vehicle,  we  jolted  along  in  the 
dark,  rumbling  now  and  then  through  some  silent  village 
where  lamps  were  burning  before  the  solitary  shrines. 
Sometimes  a  blinding  light  crossed  the  road,  where  we  saw 
the  tile-makers  sitting  in  the  red  glare  of  their  kilns,  and 
often  the  black  boughs  of  trees  were  painted  momentarily 
on  the  cloudy  sky.  If  the  jolting  carriage  had  even  per- 
mitted sleep,  the  horrid  cries  of  the  vetturino  urging  on  his 
horses  would  have  prevented  it,  and  I  decided,  while  trying 
to  relieve  my  aching  limbs,  that  three  days'  walking  in  sun 
and  sand  was  preferable  to  one  night  of  such  travel.  Fi- 
nally, about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  carriage  stop- 
ped. My  Italian  friend  awoke  and  demanded  the  cause. 
"  Sisnor,"  said  the  vetturino,  "  we  are  in  Florence."  I  bless- 
ed  the  man,  and  the  city  too. 

The  good-humored  officer  looked  at  our  passports  and 
passed  our  baggage  without  examination  ;  we  gave  the  gate- 
keeper a  paul,  and  he  admitted  us.     The  carriage  rolled 


294  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

through  the  dark,  silent  streets,  passed  a  public  square, 
came  out  on  the  Arno,  crossed  and  entered  the  city  again, 
and  finally  stopped  at  a  hotel. 

The  master  of  the  Lione  Bianco  came  down  in  an  undress 
to  receive  us,  and  we  shut  the  growing  dawn  out  of  our 
rooms  to  steal  that  repose  from  the  day  which  the  night  had 
not  given. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

FLORENCE    AND    ITS    GALLERIES. 

Sept.  11. 

Our  situation  here  is  as  agreeable  as  we  could  well  desire. 
We  have  three  large  and  handsomely-furnished  rooms  in 
the  centre  of  the  city,  for  which  we  pay  Signor  Lazzeri — a 
wealthy  goldsmith — ten  scudo  per  month,  a  scudo  being  a 
trifle  more  than  an  American  dollar.  We  live  at  the  cafes 
and  trattoria  very  conveniently  for  twenty-five  cents  a  day, 
enjoying,  moreover,  at  our  dinner  in  the  Trattoria  del  Cac- 
ciatore,  the  company  of  several  American  artists  with  whom 
we  have  become  acquainted.  The  day  after  our  arrival  we 
met,  at  the  table  d'hote  of  the  Lione  Bianco  Dr.  Boardman 
of  New  York,  through  whose  assistance  we  obtained  our 
present  lodgings. 

There  are  at  present  ten  or  twelve  American  artists  in 
Florence,  and  we  promise  ourselves  much  pleasure  and 
profit  from  their  acquaintance.  B and  I  are  so  charm- 
ed with  the  place  and  the  beautiful  Tuscan  dialect  that  we 

shall  endeavor  to  spend  three  or  four  months  here.     F 

returns  to  Germany  in  two  weeks,  to  attend  the  winter  term 
of  the  university  at  his  favorite  Heidelberg. 

Our  first  walk  in  Florence  was  to  the  royal  gallery :  we 


THE  VENUS  DE  MEDICI.  295 

wished  to  see  the  "goddess  living  in  stone"  without  delay. 
Crossing  the  neighboring  Piazza  del  Granduca,  we  passed 
Michael  Angelo's  colossal  statue  of  David,  and  an  open 
gallery  containing,  besides,  some  antiques,  the  master-piece 
of  John  of  Bologna.  The  palace  of  the  Uffizii,  fronting  on 
the  Arno,  extends  along  both  sides  of  an  avenue  running 
back  to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  We  entered  the  portico  which 
passes  around  under  the  great  building,  and  after  ascending 
three  or  four  flights  of  steps  came  into  a  long  hall  filled 
with  paintings  and  ancient  statuary.  Toward  the  end  of 
this  a  door  opened  into  the  Tribune — that  celebrated  room, 
unsurpassed  by  any  in  the  world  for  the  number  and  value 
of  the  gems  it  contains.  I  pushed  aside  a  crimson  curtain, 
and  stood  in  the  j>resence  of  the  Venus. 

It  may  be  considered  heresy,  but  I  confess  I  did  not  at 
first  go  into  raptures  nor  perceive  any  traces  of  superhu- 
man beauty.  The  predominant  feeling,  if  I  may  so  express 
it,  was  satisfaction.  The  eye  dwells  on  its  faultless  outline 
with  a  gratified  sense  that  nothing  is  wanting  to  render  it 
perfect.  It  is  the  ideal  of  a  woman's  form — a  faultless 
standard  by  which  all  beauty  may  be  measured,  but  with- 
out striking  expression  except  in  the  modest  and  graceful 
position  of  the  limbs.  The  face,  though  regular,  is  not 
handsome,  and  the  body  appears  small,  being  but  five  feet 
in  height,  which,  I  think,  is  a  little  below  the  average  stat- 
ure of  women.  On  each  side,  as  if  to  heighten  its  elegance 
by  contrast  with  rude  and  unrefined  nature,  are  the  statues 
of  the  Wrestlers,  and  the  slave  listening  to  the  conspiracy 
of  Catiline,  called  also  "The  Whetter." 

As  if  to  correspond  with  the  value  of  the  works  it  holds, 
the  Tribune  is  paved  with  precious  marbles  and  the  ceiling 
studded  with  polished  mother-of-pearl.  A  dim  and  subdued 
light  fills  the  hall  which  throws  over  the  mind  that  half- 
dreamy  tone  necessary  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  such  objects. 
On  each  side  of  the  Venus  de  Medici  hangs  a  Venus  by 
Titian,  the  size  of  life,  and  painted  in  that  rich  and  gor- 


'296  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

geous  style  of  coloring  which  has  been  so  often  and  vainly 
attempted  since  his  time. 

Here  are  six  of  Raphael's  best  preserved  paintings.  I 
prefer  the  "  St.  John  in  the  Desert  "  to  any  other  picture 
in  the  Tribune.  His  glorious  form,  in  the  fair  proportions 
of  ripening  boyhood,  the  grace  of  his  attitude,  with  the  arm 
lifted  eloquently  on  high,  the  divine  inspiration  which  illu- 
mines his  young  features,  chain  the  step  irresistibly  before 
it.  It  is  one  of  those  triumphs  of  the  pencil  which  few  but 
Raphael  have  accomplished— the  painting  of  spirit  in  its 
loftiest  and  purest  form.  Near  it  hangs  the  Fornarina, 
which  he  seems  to  have  painted  in  as  deep  a  love  as  he  en- 
tertained for  the  original.  The  face  is  modest  and  beauti- 
ful, and  filled  with  an  expression  of  ardent  and  tender  at- 
tachment.    I  never  tire  looking  upon  either  of  these  two. 

Let  me  not  forget,  while  we  are  in  this  peerless  hall,  to 
point  out  Guercino's  Samian  Sybil.  It  is  a  glorious  work. 
With  her  hands  clasped  over  her  volume,  she  is  looking  up 
with  a  face  full  of  deep  and  expressive  sadness.  A  pictur- 
esque turban  is  twined  around  her  head,  and  bands  of 
pearls  gleam  amidst  her  rich  dark-brown  tresses.  Her  face 
bears  the  softness  of  dawning  womanhood,  and  nearly  an- 
swers my  ideal  of  female  beauty.  The  same  artist  has  an- 
other fine  picture  here — a  Sleeping  Endymion.  The  man- 
tle has  fallen  from  his  shoulders  as  he  reclines  asleep  with 
his  head  on  his  hand  and  his  crook  beside  him.  The  silver 
crescent  of  Dian  looks  over  his  shoulder  from  the  sky  be- 
hind, and  no  wonder  if  she  should  become  enamored,  for  a 
lovelier  shepherd  has  not  been  seen  since  that  of  King  Ad- 
met  us  went  back  to  drive  his  chariot  in  the  heavens. 

The  "  Drunken  Bacchus  "  of  Michael  Angelo  is  greatly 
admired,  and,  indeed,  it  might  pass  for  a  relic  of  the  palm- 
iest times  of  Grecian  art.  The  face,  amidst  its  half-vacant 
sensual  expression,  shows  traces  of  its  immortal  origin,  and 
there  is  still  an  air  of  dignity  preserved  in  the  swagger  of 
his  beautiful  form.     It  is,  in  a  wrord,  the  ancient  idea  of  a 


THE  HALL  OF  NIOBE.  297 

drunken  god.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  artist's  tal- 
ents might  not  have  been  employed  better  than  in  enno- 
bling intoxication.  If  he  had  represented  Bacchus  as  he 
really  is — degraded  even  below  the  level  of  humanity — it 
might  be  more  beneficial  to  the  mind,  though  less  beautiful 
to  the  eye.  However,  this  is  a  question  on  which  artists 
and  moralists  cannot  agree.  Perhaps,  too,  the  rich  blood 
of  the  Falernian  grape  produced  a  more  godlike  delirium 
than  the  vulgar  brandy  which  oversets  the  moderns. 

At  one  end  of  the  gallery  is  a  fine  copy  in  marble  of  the 
Laocoon  by  Bandinelli,  one  of  the  rivals  of  Michael  An- 
gelo.  When  it  was  finished,  the  former  boasted  it  was  bet- 
ter than  the  original,  to  which  Michael  made  the  apt  reply, 
"  It  is  foolish  for  those  who  walk  in  the  footsteps  of  others 
to  say  they  go  before  them." 

Let  us  enter  the  Hall  of  Niobe.  One  starts  back  on  see- 
ing the  many  figures  in  the  attitude  of  flight,  for  they  seem 
at  first  about  to  spring  from  their  pedestals.  At  the  head 
of  the  room  stands  the  afflicted  mother,  bending  over  the 
youngest  daughter,  who  clings  to  her  knees  with  an  up- 
turned countenance  of  deep  and  imploring  agony.  In  vain  ! 
The  shafts  of  Apollo  fall  thick,  and  she  will  soon  be  child- 
less. No  wonder  the  strength  of  that  woe  depicted  on  her 
countenance  should  change  her  into  stone.  One  of  her  sons 
— a  beautiful  boyish  form — is  lying  on  his  back,  just  expir- 
ing, with  the  chill  languor  of  death  creeping  over  his  limbs. 
We  seem  to  hear  the  quick  whistling  of  the  arrows,  and 
look  involuntarily  into  the  air  to  see  the  hovering  figure  of 
the  avenging  god.  In  a  chamber  near  is  kept  the  head  of 
a  faun  made  by  Michael  Angelo,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  in 
the  garden  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  from  a  piece  of  marble 
given  him  by  the  workmen. 

The  portraits  of  the  painters  are  more  than  usually  in- 
teresting. Every  countenance  is  full  of  character.  There 
is  the  pale,  enthusiastic  face  of  Raphael,  the  stern  vigor  of 
Titian,  the  majesty  and  dignity  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and 


298  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  fresh  beauty  of  Angelica  Kauffmann.  I  liked  best  the 
romantic  head  of  Raphael  Mengs.  In  one  of  the  rooms 
there  is  a  portrait  of  Alfieri  with  an  autograph  sonnet  of 
his  own  on  the  back  of  it.  The  house  in  which  he  lived 
and  died  is  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Arno,  near  the  Ponte 
Caraja,  and  his  ashes  rest  in  Santa  Croce. 

Italy  still  remains  the  home  of  art,  and  it  is  but  just  she 
should  keep  these  treasures,  though  the  age  that  brought 
them  forth  has  passed  away.  They  are  her  only  support 
now ;  her  people  are  dependent  for  their  subsistence  on  the 
glory  of  the  past.  The  spirits  of  the  old  painters,  living 
still  on  their  canvas,  earn  from  year  to  year  the  bread  of 
an  indigent  and  oppressed  people.  This  ought  to  silence 
those  utilitarians  at  home  who  oppose  the  cultivation  of  the 
fine  arts  on  the  ground  of  their  being  useless  luxuries.  Let 
them  look  to  Italy,  where  a  picture  by  Raphal  or  Correggio 
is  a  rich  legacy  for  a  whole  city.  Nothing  is  useless  that 
gratifies  that  perception  of  beauty  which  is  at  once  the  most 
delicate  and  the  most  intense  of  our  mental  sensations,  bind- 
ing us  by  an  unconscious  link  nearer  to  Nature  and  to  Him 
whose  every  thought  is  born  of  Beauty,  Truth  and  Love. 
I  envy  not  the  one  who  looks  with  a  cold  and  indifferent 
spirit  on  these  immortal  creations  of  the  old  masters — these 
poems  written  in  marble  and  on  the  canvas.  They  who  oppose 
everything  which  can  refine  and  spiritualize  the  nature  of 
man  by  binding  him  down  to  the  cares  of  the  work-day 
world  alone  cheat  life  of  half  its  glory. 

The  8th  of  this  month  was  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of 
the  Virgin,  and  the  celebration,  if  such  it  might  be  called, 
commenced  the  evening  before.  It  is  the  custom — and 
Heaven  only  knows  how  it  originated — for  the  people  of 
the  lower  class  to  go  through  the  streets  in  a  company  blow- 
ing little  penny  whistles.  We  were  walking  that  night  in 
the  direction  of  the  Duomo,  when  we  met  a  band  of  these 
men  blowing  with  all  their  might  on  the  shrill  whistles ;  so 
that  the  whole  neighborhood  resounded  with  one  continual, 


FIESOLE.  299 

piercing,  ear-splitting  shriek.  They  marched  in  a  kind  of 
quick  trot  through  the  streets,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  boys, 
and  varying  the  noise  occasionally  by  shouts  and  howls  of 
the  most  horrible  character.  They  paraded  through  all  the 
principal  streets  of  the  city,  which  for  an  hour  sent  up  such 
an  agonizing  scream  that  you  might  have  fancied  it  an 
enormous  monster  expiring  in  great  torment.  The  people 
seemed  to  take  the  whole  thing  as  a  matter  of  course,  but 
it  was  to  us  a  novel  manner  of  ushering  in  a  religious  fes- 
tival. 

The  sky  was  clear  and  blue — as  it  always  is  in  this  Italian 
paradise — when  we  left  Florence  a  few  days  ago  for  Fiesole. 
In  spite  of  many  virtuous  efforts  to  rise  early,  it  was  nine 
o'clock  before  we  left  the  Porta  San  Gallo,  with  its  tri- 
umphal arch  to  the  emperor  Francis  striding  the  road  to 
Bologna.  We  passed  through  the  public  walk  at  this  end 
of  the  city,  and  followed  the  road  to  Fiesole  along  the  dried- 
up  bed  of  a  mountain-torrent.  The  dwellings  of  the  Floren- 
tine nobility  occupy  the  whole  slope,  surrounded  with  rich 
and  lovely  gardens.  The  mountain  and  plain  are  both  cov- 
ered with  luxuriant  olive  orchards,  whose  foliage  of  silver 
gray  gives  the  scene  the  look  of  a  moonlight  landscape. 

At  the  base  of  the  mountain  of  Fiesole  we  passed  one  of 
the  summer  palaces  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  a  little 
distance  beyond  took  a  footpath  overshadowed  by  magnifi- 
cent cypresses,  between  whose  dark  trunks  we  looked  down 
on  the  lovely  Val  d'Arno.  But  I  will  reserve  all  descrip- 
tion of  the  view  till  we  arrive  at  the  summit. 

The  modern  village  of  Fiesole  occupies  the  site  of  an  an- 
cient city  generally  supposed  to  be  of  Etrurian  origin.  Just 
above,  on  one  of  the  peaks  of  the  mountain,  stands  the  Acrop- 
olis, formerly  used  as  a  fortress,  but  now  untenanted  save 
by  a  few  monks.  From  the  side  of  its  walls,  beneath  the 
shade  of  a  few  cypresses,  thei'e  is  a  magnificent  view  of  the 
whole  of  Val  d'Arno,  with  Florence,  the  gem  of  Italy,  in 
the  centre. 


300  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Stand  with  me  a  moment  on  the  height,  and  let  us  gaze 
on  this  grand  panorama,  around  which  the  Apennines 
stretch  with  a  majestic  sweep,  wrapped  in  a  robe  of  purple 
air,  through  which  shimmer  the  villas  and  villages  on  their 
sides.  The  lovely  vale  lies  below  us  in  its  garb  of  olive- 
groves,  among  which  beautiful  villas  are  sprinkled  as  plen- 
tifully as  white  anemones  in  the  woods  of  May.  Florence 
lies  in  front  of  us,  the  magnificent  cupola  of  the  Duomo 
crowning  its  clustered  palaces.  We  see  the  airy  tower  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio,  the  new  spire  of  Santa  Croce  and  the  long 
front  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti,  with  the  dark  foliage  of  the  Bo- 
boli  Gardens  behind.  Beyond,  far  to  the  south,  are  the 
summits  of  the  mountains  near  Siena.  We  can  trace  the 
sandy  bed  of  the  Arno  down  the  valley  till  it  disappears  at 
the  foot  of  the  lower  Apennines,  which  mingle  in  the  dis- 
tance with  the  mountains  of  Carrara. 

Galileo  was  wont  to  make  observations  "  at  evening  from 
the  top  of  Fiesole,"  and  the  square  tower  of  the  old  church 
is  still  pointed  out  as  the  spot.  Many  a  night  did  he  as- 
cend to  its  projecting  terrace  and  watch  the  stars  as  they 
rolled  around  through  the  clearest  heaven  to  Avhich  a  phil- 
osopher ever  looked  up. 

We  passed  through  an  orchard  of  fig  trees  and  vines  la- 
den with  beautiful  purple  and  golden  clusters,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  reached  the  remains  of  an  amphitheatre  in  a  little 
nook  on  the  mountain-side.  This  was  a  work  of  Koman 
construction,  as  its  form  indicates.  Three  or  four  ranges  of 
seats  alone  are  laid  bare,  and  these  have  only  been  discov- 
ered within  a  few  years.  A  few  steps  farther  Ave  came  to  a 
sort  of  cavern  overhung  with  wild  fig  trees.  After  creeping 
in  at  the  entrance,  we  found  ourselves  in  an  oval  chamber 
tall  enough  to  admit  of  our  standing  upright,  and  rudely 
but  very  strongly  built.  This  was  one  of  the  dens  in  which 
the  wild  beasts  were  kept ;  they  were  fed  by  a  hole  in  the 
top,  now  closed  up.     This  cell  communicates  with  four  or 


SANTA  CROCK  301 

five  others  by  apertures  broken  in  the  walls.  I  stepped 
into  one,  and  could  see  in  the  dim  light  that  it  was  exactly 
similar  to  the  first  and  opened  into  another  beyond. 

Farther  down  the  mountain  we  found  the  ancient  wall  of 
the  city,  without  doubt  of  Etrurian  origin.  It  is  of  immense 
blocks  of  stone,  and  extends  more  or  less  dilapidated  around 
the  whole  brow  of  the  mountain.  In  one  place  there  stands 
a  solitary  gateway  of  large  stones  which  looks  as  if  it  might 
have  been  one  of  the  first  attempts  at  using  the  principle  of 
the  arch.  These  ruins  are  all  gray  and  ivied,  and  it  startles 
one  to  think  what  a  history  Earth  has  lived  through  since 
their  foundations  wei-e  laid. 

We  sat  all  the  afternoon  under  the  cypress  trees  and 
looked  down  on  the  lovely  valley,  practising  Italian  sometimes 
with  two  young  Florentines  who  came  up  to  enjoy  the  "  bell' 
aria  "  of  Fiesole.  Descending  as  sunset  drew  on,  we  reached 
the  Porta  San  Gallo  as  the  people  of  Florence  were  issuing 
forth  to  their  evening  promenade. 

One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  the  church  of  Santa  Croce. 
This  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  Florence,  venerated  alike  by 
foreigners  and  citizens  for  the  illustrious  dead  whose  re- 
mains it  holds.  It  is  a  plain,  gloomy  pile,  the  front  of  which 
is  still  unfinished,  though  at  the  base  one  sees  that  it  was 
originally  designed  to  be  covered  with  black  marble.  On 
entering  the  door  we  first  saw  the  tomb  of  Michael  Angelo. 
Around  the  marble  sarcophagus  which  contains  his  ashes 
are  three  mourning  figures  representing  Sculpture,  Painting 
and  Architecture,  and  his  bust  stands  above — a  rough,  stern 
countenance,  like  a  man  of  vast  but  unrefined  mind.  Far- 
ther on  are  the  tombs  of  Alfieri  and  Machiavelli  and  the 
colossal  cenotaph  lately  erected  to  Dante.  Opposite  re- 
poses Galileo.  What  a  world  of  renown  in  these  few  names ! 
It  makes  one  venerate  the  majesty  of  his  race  to  stand  be- 
side the  dust  of  such  lofty  spirits. 

Dante's  monument  may  be  said  to  be  only  erected  to  his 
memory ;  he  sleeps  at  the  place  of  his  exile, 


302  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

"  Like  Scipio  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore." 

It  is  the  work  of  Ricci,  a  Florentine  artist,  and  has  been 
placed  there  within  a  few  years.  The  colossal  figure  of 
Poetry  weeping  over  the  empty  urn  might  better  express 
the  regret  of  Florence  in  being  deprived  of  his  ashes.  The 
figure  of  Dante  himself,  seated  above,  is  grand  and  majestic ; 
his  head  is  inclined  as  if  in  meditation,  and  his  features 
bear  the  expression  of  sublime  thought.  Were  this  figure 
placed  there  alone  on  a  simple  and  massive  pedestal,  it 
would  be  more  in  keeping  with  his  fame  than  the  lumber- 
ing heaviness  of  the  present  monument. 

Machiavelli's  tomb  is  adorned  with  a  female  figure  rep- 
resenting History  bearing  his  portrait.  The  inscription, 
which  seems  to  be  somewhat  exaggerated,  is  "Tanto  nomini 
nullum  par  elogium."  Near  lies  Alfieri,  the  "  Prince  of  Trag- 
edy," as  he  is  called  by  the  Italians.  In  his  life  he  was  fond 
of  wandering  among  the  tombs  of  Santa  Croce,  and  it  is 
said  that  there  the  first  desire  and  presentiment  of  his  fu- 
ture glory  stirred  within  his  breast.  Now  he  slumbers 
among  them,  not  the  least  honored  name  of  that  immortal 
company. 

Galileo's  tomb  is  adorned  with  his  bust.  His  face  is  calm 
and  dignified,  and  he  holds  appropriately  in  his  hands  a 
globe  and  telescope.  Aretino,  the  historian,  lies  on  his  tomb 
with  a  copy  of  his  works  clasped  to  his  breast ;  above  that 
of  Lanzi,  the  historian  of  painting,  there  is  a  beautiful 
fresco  of  the  angel  of  Fame,  and  opposite  to  him  is  the 
scholar  Lamio.  The  most  beautiful  monument  in  the 
church  is  that  of  a  Polish  princess,  in  the  transept.  She  is 
lying  on  the  bier,  her  features  settled  in  the  repose  of  death 
and  her  thin,  pale  hands  clasped  across  her  breast.  The 
countenance  wears  that  half  smile — "  so  coldly  sweet  and 
sadly  fair  " — which  so  often  throws  a  beauty  over  the  face 
of  the  dead,  and  the  light  pall  reveals  the  fixed  yet  grace- 
ful outline  of  the  form. 


THE  PALAZZO  PITTI.  303 

In  that  part  of  the  city  which  lies  on  the  south  bank  of 
the  Arno  is  the  palace  of  the  grand  duke,  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti,  from  a  Florentine  noble  of  that 
name  by  whom  it  was  first  built.  It  is  a  very  large,  impos- 
ing pile,  preserving  an  air  of  lightness  in  spite  of  the  rough, 
heavy  stones  of  which  it  is  built.  It  is  another  example  of 
a  magnificent  failure.  The  marquis  Strozzi  having  built  a 
palace  which  was  universally  admired  for  its  beauty  (which 
stands  yet,  a  model  of  chaste  and  massive  elegance),  his 
rival,  the  marquis  Pitti,  made  the  proud  boast  that  he 
would  build  a  palace  in  the  court-yard  ot  which  could  be 
placed  that  of  Strozzi.  These  are  actually  the  dimensions 
of  the  court-yard,  but  in  building  the  palace,  although  he 
was  liberally  assisted  by  the  Florentine  people,  he  ruined 
himself,  and  his  magnificent  residence  passed  into  other 
hands,  while  that  of  Strozzi  is  inhabited  by  his  descendants 
to  this  very  day. 

The  gallery  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti  is  one  of  the  finest  in 
Europe.  It  contains  six  or  seven  hundred  paintings  select- 
ed from  the  best  works  of  the  Italian  masters.  By  the 
praiseworthy  liberality  of  the  duke  they  are  open  to  the 
public  six  hours  every  day,  and  the  rooms  are  thronged 
with  artists  of  all  nations. 

Anions  Titian's  works,  there  is  his  celebrated  "  Bella," 
a  half-length  figure  of  a  young  woman.  It  is  a  masterpiece 
of  warm  and  brilliant  coloring,  without  any  decided  ex- 
pression. The  countenance  is  that  of  vague,  undefined 
thought,  as  of  one  who  knew  as  yet  nothing  of  the  realities 
of  life.  In  another  room  is  his  Magdalen,  a  large  voluptu- 
ous form,  with  her  brown  hair  falling  like  a  veil  over  her 
shoulders  and  breast,  but  in  her  upturned  countenance  one 
can  sooner  read  a  prayer  for  an  absent  lover  than  repentance 
for  sins  she  has  committed. 

What  could  excel  in  beauty  the  "  Madonna  della  Sedia" 
of  Raphael  ?  It  is  another  of  those  works  of  that  divine 
artist  on  which  we  gaze  and  gaze  with  a  never-tiring  enjoy- 


304  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ment  of  its  angelic  beauty.  To  my  eye  it  is  faultless ;  I 
could  not  wish  a  single  outline  of  form,  a  single  shade  of 
color,  changed.  Like  his  unrivalled  Madonna  in  the  Dres- 
den Gallery,  its  beauty  is  spiritual  as  well  as  earthly ;  and 
while  gazing  on  the  glorious  countenance  of  the  Jesus-child 
I  feel  an  impulse  I  can  scarcely  explain — a  longing  to  tear 
it  from  the  canvas  as  if  it  were  a  breathing  form  and  clasp 
it  to  my  heart  in  a  glow  of  passionate  love.  What  a  sub- 
lime inspiration  Raphael  must  have  felt  when  he  painted 
it !  Judging  from  its  effect  on  the  beholder,  I  can  conceive 
of  no  higher  mental  excitement  than  that  required  to  cre- 
ate it. 

Here  are  also  some  of  the  finest  and  best-preserved  pict- 
ures of  Salvator  Rosa,  and  his  portrait — a  wild  head  full 
of  spirit  and  genius.  Besides  several  landscapes  in  his  sav- 
age and  stormy  style,  there  are  two  large  sea-views  in  which 
the  atmosphere  is  of  a  deep  and  exquisite  softness  without 
impairing  the  strength  and  boldness  of  the  composition. 
"A  Battle-Scene  "  is  terrible.  Hundreds  of  combatants  are 
met  in  the  shock  and  struggle  of  conflict.  Horses,  mailed 
knights,  vassals,  are  mixed  together  in  wild  confusion ;  ban- 
ners are  waving  and  lances  flashing  amid  the  dust  and 
smoke,  while  the  wounded  and  dying  are  trodden  under  foot 
in  darkness  and  blood.  I  now  first  begin  to  comprehend 
the  power  and  sublimity  of  his  genius.  From  the  wild- 
ness  and  gloom  of  his  pictures,  he  might  almost  be  called 
the  Byron  of  painters. 

There  is  a  small  group  of  the  "  Fates,"  by  Michael  An- 
gelo,  which  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  few  pictures  which  re- 
main of  him.  As  is  well  known,  he  disliked  the  art,  saying  it 
was  only  fit  for  women.  This  picture  shows,  however,  how 
much  higher  he  might  have  gone  had  he  been  so  inclined. 
The  three  weird  sisters  are  ghostly  and  awful — the  one  who 
stands  behind,  holding  the  distaff,  almost  frightful.  She 
who  stands  ready  to  cut  the  thread  as  it  is  spun  out  has  a 
slight  trace  of  pity  on  her  fixed  and  unearthly  lineaments. 


CANOVA'S  VENUS.  305 

It  is  a  faithful  embodiment  of  the  old  Greek  idea  of  the 
Fates.  I  have  wondered  why  some  artist  has  not  attempted 
the  subject  in  a  different  way.  In  the  Northern  mythology 
they  are  represented  as  wild  maidens  armed  with  swords 
and  mounted  on  fiery  coursers.  Why  might  they  not  also 
be  pictured  as  angels  with  countenances  of  a  sublime  and 
mysterious  beauty — one  all  radiant  with  hope  and  promise 
of  glory,  and  one  with  the  token  of  a  better  future  mingled 
with  the  sadness  with  which  it  severs  the  links  of  life  ? 

There  are  many,  many  other  splendid  works  in  this  col- 
lection, but  it  is  unnecessary  to  mention  them.  I  have  only 
endeavored,  by  taking  a  few  of  the  best  known,  to  give  some 
idea  of  them  as  they  appear  to  me.  There  are  hundreds 
of  pictures  here  which,  though  gems  in  themselves,  are  by 
masters  who  are  rarely  heard  of  in  America,  and  it  would 
be  of  little  interest  to  go  through  the  gallery  describing  it 
in  guide-book  fashion.  Indeed,  to  describe  galleries,  how- 
ever rich  and  renowned  they  may  be,  is  in  general  a  work 
of  so  much  difficulty  that  I  know  not  whether  the  writer 
or  the  reader  is  made  most  tired  thereby. 

This  collection  possesses  also  the  celebrated  statue  of 
Venus  by  Canova.  She  stands  in  the  centre  of  a  little 
apartment  filled  with  the  most  delicate  and  graceful  works 
of  painting.  Although  undoubtedly  a  figure  of  great 
beauty,  it  by  no  means  struck  me  as  possessing  that  exqui- 
site and  classic  perfection  which  has  been  ascribed  to  it. 
The  Venus  de  Medici  far  surpasses  it.  The  head  is  larger, 
in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  body,  than  that  of  the  lat- 
ter, but  has  not  the  same  modest  virgin  expression.  The 
arm  wrapped  in  the  robe  which  she  is  pressing  to  her 
breast  is  finely  executed,  but  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand 
are  bad — looking,  as  my  friend  said,  as  if  the  ends  were 
whittled  off.  The  body  is,  however,  of  fine  proportions, 
though,  taken  as  a  whole,  the  statue  is  inferior  to  many 
other  of  Canova's  works. 

Occupying  all  the  hill  back  of  the  Pitti  Palace  are  the 

20 


306  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Boboli  Gardens,  three  times  a  week  the  great  resort  of  the 
Florentines.  They  are  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  gar- 
dens in  Italy.  Numberless  paths  diverging  from  a  magnif- 
icent amphitheatre  in  the  old  Roman  style,  opposite  the 
court-yard,  lead  either  in  long  flights  of  steps  and  terraces 
or  gentle  windings  among  beds  sweet  with  roses  to  the  sum- 
mit. Long  avenues  entirely  arched  and  interwoven  with 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  laurel,  which  here  grows  to  a  tree, 
stretch  along  the  slopes  or  wind  in  the  woods  through  thick- 
ets of  the  fragrant  bay.  Parterres  rich  with  flowers  and 
shrubbery  alternate  with  delightful  groves  of  the  Italian 
pine,  acacia  and  laurel-leaved  oak,  and  along  the  hillside, 
gleaming  among  the  foliage,  are  placed  statues  of  marble, 
some  of  which  are  from  the  chisels  of  Michael  Angelo  and 
Bandinelli.  In  one  part  there  is  a  little  sheet  of  water  with 
an  island  of  orange  trees  in  the  centre,  from  which  a  broad 
avenue  of  cypresses  and  statues  leads  to  the  very  summit 
of  the  hill. 

We  often  go  there  to  watch  the  sun  set  over  Florence  and 
the  vale  of  the  Arno.  The  palace  lies  directly  below,  and 
a  clump  of  pine  trees  on  the  hillside,  that  stand  out  in  bold 
relief  on  the  glowing  sky,  makes  the  foreground  to  one  of 
the  loveliest  pictures  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  I  saw  one 
afternoon  the  grand  duke  and  his  family  get  into  their  car- 
riage to  drive  out.  One  of  the  little  dukes,  who  seemed  a 
mischievous  imp,  ran  out  on  a  projection  of  the  portico, 
where  considerable  persuasion  had  to  be  used  to  induce  him 
to  jump  into  the  arms  of  his  royal  papa.  I  turned  from 
these  titled  infants  to  watch  a  group  of  beautiful  American 
children  playing,  for  my  attention  was  drawn  to  them  by 
the  sound  of  familiar  words,  and  I  learned  afterward  they 
were  the  children  of  the  sculptor  Powers.  I  contrasted  in- 
voluntarily the  destinies  of  each — one  to  the  enjoyment  and 
proud  energy  of  freedom,  and  one  to  the  confining  and 
vitiating  atmosphere  of  a  court.  The  merry  voices  of  the 
latter,  as  they  played  on  the  grass,  came  to  my  ears  most 


PILGRIMS  OF  ART.  307 

gratefully.     There  is  nothing  so  sweet  as  to  hear  one's  na- 
tive tongue  in  a  foreign  land  from  the  lips  of  children. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

A   PILGRIMAGE   TO   VALLOMBROSA. 

"A  pilgrimage  to  Vallombrosa  " !  In  sooth  it  has  a  ro- 
mantic sound.  The  phrase  calls  up  images  of  rosaries  and 
crosses  and  shaven-headed  friars.  Had  we  lived  in  the 
olden  days,  such  things  might  verily  have  accompanied  our 
journey  to  that  holy  monastery.  We  might  then  have  gone 
barefoot,  saying  prayers  as  we  toiled  along  the  banks  of  the 
Arno  and  up  the  steep  Apennines,  as  did  Benvenuto  Cel- 
lini before  he  poured  the  melted  bronze  into  the  mould  of 
his  immortal  Perseus.  But  we  are  pilgrims  to  the  shrines 
of  Art  and  Genius ;  the  dwelling-places  of  great  minds  are 
our  sanctuaries.  The  mean  dwelling  in  which  a  poet  has 
battled  down  poverty  with  the  ecstasy  of  his  mighty  con- 
ceptions and  the  dungeon  in  which  a  persecuted  philosopher 
has  languished  are  to  us  sacred ;  wTe  turn  aside  from  the 
palaces  of  kings  and  the  battlefields  of  conquerors  to  visit 
them.  The  famed  miracles  of  San  Giovanni  Gualberto 
added  little,  in  our  eyes,  to  the  interest  of  Vallombrosa,  but 
there  were  reverence  and  inspiration  in  the  names  of  Dante, 
Milton  and  Ariosto. 

We  left  Florence  early,  taking  the  way  that  leads  from 
the  Porta  della  Croce  up  the  north  bank  of  the  Arno.  It 
was  a  bright  morning,  but  there  was  a  shade  of  vapor  on 
the  hills  which  a  practised  eye  might  have  taken  as  a  prog- 
nostic of  the  rain  that  too  soon  came  on.  Fiesole,  with  its 
tower  and  Acropolis,  stood  out  brightly  from  the  blue  back- 
ground, and  the  hill  of  San  Miniato  lay  with  its  cypress 
groves  in  the  softest  morning  light.     The  contadini  were 


308  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

driving  into  the  city  in  their  basket  wagons,  and  there  were 
some  fair  young  faces  among  them  that  made  us  think  Italian 
beauty  was  not  altogether  in  the  imagination. 

After  walking  three  or  four  miles  we  entered  the  Apen- 
nines, keeping  along  the  side  of  the  Arno,  whose  bed  is 
more  than  half  dried  up  from  the  long  summer  heats.  The 
mountain-sides  were  covered  with  vineyards  glowing  with 
their  wealth  of  white  and  purple  grapes,  but  the  summits 
were  naked  and  barren. 

We  passed  through  the  little  town  of  Ponte  Sieve,  at  the 
entrance  of  a  romantic  valley  where  our  view  of  the  Arno 
was  made  more  interesting  by  the  lofty  range  of  the  Apen- 
nines, amid  whose  forests  we  could  see  the  white  front  of 
the  monastery  of  Vallombrosa.  But  the  clouds  sank  low 
and  hid  it  from  sight,  and  the  rain  came  on  so  hard  that  we 
were  obliged  to  take  shelter  occasionally  in  the  cottages  by 
the  wayside.  In  one  of  these  we  made  a  dinner  of  the  hard 
black  bread  of  the  country,  rendered  palatable  by  the  ad- 
dition of  mountain-cheese  and  some  chips  of  an  antique 
Bologna  sausage.  We  were  much  amused  in  conversing 
with  the  simple  hosts  and  their  shy,  gypsy-like  children,  one 
of  whom,  a  dark-eyed,  curly-haired  boy,  bore  the  name  of  Ra- 
phael. We  also  became  acquainted  with  a  shoemaker  and 
his  family  who  owned  a  little  olive-orchard  and  vineyard 
which  they  said  produced  enough  to  support  them.  Wish- 
ing to  know  how  much  a  family  of  six  consumed  in  a  year, 
we  inquired  the  yield  of  their  property.  They  answered, 
"  Twenty  small  barrels  of  wine  and  ten  of  oil."  It  was 
nearly  sunset  when  we  reached  Pellago,  and  the  wet  walk 
and  coarse  fare  we  were  obliged  to  take  on  the  road  well 
qualified  us  to  enjoy  the  excellent  supper  the  pleasant  land- 
lady gave  us. 

This  little  town  is  among  the  Apennines,  at  the  foot  of  the 
magnificent  mountain  of  Vallombrosa.  What  a  blessing  it 
was  for  Milton  that  he  saw  its  loveliness  before  his  eyes 
closed  on  this  beautiful  earth  and  gained  from  it  another 


LUSCIOUS  GRAPES.  309 

hue  in  which  to  dip  his  pencil  when  he  painted  the  bliss  of 
Eden  !  I  watched  the  hills  all  day  as  we  approached  them, 
and  thought  how  often  his  eyes  had  rested  on  their  outlines, 
and  how  he  had  carried  their  forms  in  his  memory  for  many 
a  sunless  year.  The  banished  Dante,  too,  had  trodden 
them,  flying  from  his  ungrateful  country,  and  many  another 
whose  genius  has  made  him  a  beacon  in  the  dark  sea  of  the 
world's  history.  It  is  one  of  those  places  where  the  en- 
joyment is  all  romance,  and  the  blood  thrills  as  we  gaze 
upon  it. 

We  started  early  next  morning,  crossed  the  ravine  and 
took  the  well-paved  way  to  the  monastery  along  the  moun- 
tain-side. The  stones  are  worn  smooth  by  the  sleds  in  which 
ladies  and  provisions  are  conveyed  up,  drawn  by  the  beau- 
tiful white  Tuscan  oxen.  The  hills  are  covered  with  lux- 
uriant chestnut  and  oak  trees,  of  those  picturesque  forms 
which  they  only  wear  in  Italy  ;  one  wild  dell  in  particular 
is  much  resorted  to  by  painters  for  the  ready-made  fore- 
grounds it  supplies.  Farther  on  we  passed  the  pater  no,  a 
rich  farm  belonging  to  the  monks.  The  vines  which  hung 
from  tree  to  tree  were  almost  breaking  beneath  clusters  as 
heavy  and  rich  as  those  which  the  children  of  Israel  bore 
on  staves  from  the  Promised  Land.  Of  their  flavor  we  can 
say,  from  experience,  they  were  worthy  to  have  grown  in 
Paradise.  We  then  entered  a  deep  dell  of  the  mountain 
where  little  shepherd-girls  were  sitting  on  the  rocks  tending 
their  sheep  and  spinning  with  their  fingers  from  a  distaff*  in 
the  same  manner,  doubtless,  as  the  Roman  shepherdesses 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Gnarled,  gray  olive  trees  cen- 
turies old  grew  upon  the  bare  soil,  and  a  little  rill  fell  in 
many  a  tiny  cataract  down  the  glen.  By  a  mill  in  one  of 
the  coolest  and  wildest  nooks  I  ever  saw  two  of  us  acted  the 
part  of  water-spirits  under  one  of  these,  to  the  great  aston- 
ishment of  four  peasants  who  watched  us  from  a  distance. 

Beyond,  our  road  led  through  forests  of  chestnut  and  oak, 
and  a  broad  view  of  mountain  and  vale  lay  below  us.     We 


310  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

asked  a  peasant-boy  we  met  how  much  land  the  monks  of 
Vallombrosa  possessed.  "All  that  you  see,"  was  the  reply. 
The  dominion  of  the  good  Fathers  reached  once  even  to  the 
gates  of  Florence.  At  length,  about  noon,  we  emerged  from 
the  woods  into  a  broad  avenue  leading  across  a  lawn  at 
whose  extremity  stood  the  massive  buildings  of  the  monas- 
tery. On  a  rock  that  towered  above  it  was  the  Paradisino, 
beyond  which  rose  the  mountain  covered  with  forests — 

"  Shade  above  shade-,  a  woody  theatre 
Of  stateliest  view," 

as  Milton  describes  it.  We  were  met  at  the  entrance  by  a 
young  monk  in  cowl  and  cassock,  to  whom  we  applied  for 
permission  to  stay  till  the  next  day,  which  was  immediately 
given.  Brother  Placido  (for  that  was  his  name)  then  asked 
us  if  we  would  not  have  dinner.  We  replied  that  our  ap- 
petites were  none  the  worse  for  climbing  the  mountain,  and 
in  half  an  hour  we  sat  down  to  a  dinner  the  like  of  which 
we  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  Verily,  thought  I,  it  must 
be  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  monk,  after  all — that  is,  a  monk 
of  Vallombrosa. 

In  the  afternoon  we  walked  through  a  grand  pine-forest 
to  the  western  brow  of  the  mountain,  where  a  view  opened 
which  it  would  require  a  wonderful  power  of  the  imagina- 
tion for  you  to  see  in  fancy,  as  I  did  in  reality.  From  the 
height  where  we  stood  the  view  was  uninterrupted  to  the 
Mediterranean,  a  distance  of  more  than  seventy  miles.  A 
valley  watered  by  a  branch  of  the  Arno  swept  far  to  the 
east,  to  the  mountains  near  the  Lake  of  Thrasymene ; 
north-westward  the  hills  of  Carrara  bordered  the  horizon. 
The  space  between  these  wide  points  was  filled  with  moun- 
tains and  valleys  all  steeped  in  that  soft  blue  mist  which 
makes  Italian  landscapes  more  like  heavenly  visions  than 
realities.  Florence  was  visible  afar  off,  and  the  current  of 
the  Arno  flashed  in  the  sun.  A  cool  and  almost  chilling 
wind   blew  constantly  over   the   mountain,  although   the 


THE  "LITTLE  PARADISE."  311 

country  below  basked  in  summer  heat.  We  lay  on  the 
rocks  and  let  our  souls  luxuriate  in  the  lovely  scene  till 
near  sunset.  Brother  Placido  brought  us  supper  in  the 
evening  with  his  ever-smiling  countenance,  and  we  soon 
after  went  to  our  beds  in  the  neat,  plain  chambers,  to  get 
rid  of  the  unpleasant  coldness. 

Next  morning  it  was  damp  and  misty,  and  thick  clouds 
rolled  down  the  forests  toward  the  convent.  I  set  out  for 
the  "  Little  Paradise,"  taking  in  my  way  the  pretty  cascade 
which  falls  some  fifty  feet  down  the  rocks.  The  building 
is  not  now  as  it  was  when  Milton  lived  here,  having  been 
rebuilt  within  a  short  time.  I  found  no  one  there,  and  sat- 
isfied my  curiosity  by  climbing  over  the  wall  and  looking 
in  at  the  windows.  A  little  chapel  stands  in  a  cleft  of  the 
rock  below,  to  mark  the  miraculous  escape  of  St.  John 
Gualberto,  founder  of  the  monastery.  Being  one  day  very 
closely  pursued  by  the  devil,  he  took  shelter  under  the 
rock,  which  immediately  became  soft  and  admitted  him  into 
it,  while  the  fiend,  unable  to  stop,  was  precipitated  over  the 
steep.  All  this  is  related  in  a  Latin  inscription,  and  we  saw 
a  large  hollow  in  the  rock  near  which  must  have  been  in- 
tended for  the  imprint  left  by  his  sacred  person. 

One  of  the  monks  told  us  another  legend,  concerning  a 
little  chapel  which  stands  alone  on  a  wild  part  of  the  moun- 
tain, above  a  rough  pile  of  crags,  called  the  "  Peak  of  the 
Devil."  "  In  the  time  of  San  Giovanni  Gualberto,  the 
holy  founder  of  our  order,"  said  he,  "  there  was  a  young 
man  of  a  noble  family  in  Florence  who  was  so  moved  by 
the  words  of  the  saintly  father  that  he  forsook  the  world, 
wherein  he  had  lived  with  great  luxury  and  dissipation,  and 
became  monk.  But,  after  a  time,  being  young  and  tempted 
again  by  the  pleasures  he  had  renounced,  he  put  off  the 
sacred  garments.  The  holy  San  Giovanni  warned  him  of 
the  terrible  danger  in  which  he  stood,  and  at  length  the 
wicked  young  man  returned.  It  was  not  a  great  while, 
however,  before  he  became  dissatisfied  and,  in  spite  all  holy 


312  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

counsel,  did  the  same  thing  again.  But  behold  what  hapr 
pened !  As  he  was  walking  along  the  peak  where  the 
chapel  stands,  thinking  nothing  of  his  great  crime,  the 
devil  sprang  suddenly  from  behind  a  rock,  and,  catching 
the  young  man  in  his  arms  before  he  could  escape,  carried 
him  with  a  dreadful  noise  and  a  great  red  flame  and  smoke 
over  the  precipice ;  so  that  he  was  never  afterward  seen." 

The  church  attached  to  the  monastery  is  small,  but  very 
solemn  and  venerable.  I  went  several  times  to  muse  in  its 
still,  gloomy  aisle  and  hear  the  murmuring  chant  of  the 
monks,  who  went  through  their  exercises  in  some  of  the 
chapels.  At  one  time  I  saw  them  all,  in  long  black  cas- 
socks, march  in  solemn  order  to  the  chapel  of  St.  John 
Gualberto,  where  they  sang  a  deep  chant,  which  to  me  had 
something  awful  and  sepulchral  in  it.  Behind  the  high 
altar  I  saw  their  black,  carved  chairs  of  polished  oak,  with 
ponderous  gilded  foliants  lying  on  the  rails  before  them. 
The  attendant  opened  one  of  these,  that  we  might  see  the 
manuscript  notes,  three  or  four  centuries  old,  from  which 
they  sung. 

We  were  much  amused  in  looking  through  two  or  three 
Italian  books  which  were  lying  in  the  travellers'  room. 
One  of  these,  which  our  friend  Mr.  Tandy  of  Kentucky 
read,  described  the  miracles  of  the  patron-saint  with  an  air 
of  the  most  ridiculous  solemnity.  The  other  was  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  monastery — its  foundation,  history,  etc.  In 
mentioning  its  great  and  far-spread  renown,  the  author 
stated  that  even  an  English  poet  by  the  name  of  Milton 
had  mentioned  it  in  the  following  lines,  which  I  copied  ver- 
batim from  the  book : 

"Thick  as  autumnal  scaves  that  strow  she  brooks 
In  vallombrosa,  whereth  Etruian  Jades 
Stigh  over  orcli  d'embrover." 

In  looking  over  the  strangers'  book,  I  found  among  the 
names  of  my  countrymen  that  of  S.  V.  Clevenger,  the  tal- 


A  DIRTY  VILLAGE.  313 

entcd  and  lamented  sculptor  who  died  at  sea  on  his  passage 
home.  There  were  also  the  names  of  Mrs.  Shelley  and  the 
princess  Potemkin,  and  I  saw  written  on  the  wall  the  auto- 
graph of  Jean  Reboul,  the  celebrated  modern  French 
poet. 

We  were  so  delighted  with  the  place  we  would  have  stay- 
ed another  day  but  for  fear  of  trespassing  too  much  on  the 
lavish  and  unceasing  hospitality  of  the  good  Fathers  ;  so  in 
the  afternoon  we  shook  hands  with  Brother  Placido,  and 
turned  our  backs  regretfully  upon  one  of  the  loneliest  and 
loveliest  spots  of  which  earth  can  boast.  The  sky  became 
gradually  clear  as  we  descended,  and  the  mist  raised  itself 
from  the  distant  mountains.  We  ran  down  through  the 
same  chestnut  groves,  diverging  a  little  to  go  through  the 
village  of  Tosi,  which  is  very  picturesque  when  seen  from  a 
distance,  but  extremely  dirty  to  one  passing  through.  I 
stopped  in  the  ravine  below  to  take  a  sketch  of  the  mill  and 
bridge,  and,  as  we  sat,  the  line  of  golden  sunlight  rose 
higher  on  the  mountains  above.  On  walking  down  the 
shady  side  of  this  glen  we  were  enraptured  with  the  scenery. 
A  brilliant  yet  mellow  glow  lay  over  the  whole  opposing 
height,  lighting  up  the  houses  of  Tosi  and  the  white  cot- 
tages half  seen  among  the  olives,  while  the  mountain  of 
Vallombrosa  stretched  far  heavenward  like  a  sunny  paint- 
ing, with  only  a  misty  wreath  floating  and  wTaving  around 
its  summit.  The  glossy  foliage  of  the  chestnuts  was  made 
still  brighter  by  the  warm  light,  and  the  old  olives  softened 
down  into  a  silvery  gray  whose  contrast  gave  the  landscape 
a  character  of  the  mellowest  beauty. 

As  we  wound  out  of  the  deep  glen  the  broad  valleys  and 
ranges  of  the  Apennines  lay  before  us,  forests,  castles  and 
villages  steeped  in  the  soft,  vapory  blue  of  the  Italian  atmo- 
sphere, and  the  current  of  the  Arno  flashing  like  a  golden 
belt  through  the  middle  of  the  picture. 

The  sun  was  nearly  down,  and  the  mountains  just  below 
him  were  of  a  deep  purple  hue,  while  those  that  ran  out  to 


314  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  eastward  wore  the  most  aerial  shade  of  blue.  A  few 
scattered  clouds  floating  above  soon  put  on  the  sunset  robe 
of  orange,  and  a  band  of  the  same  soft  color  encircled  the 
western  horizon.  It  did  not  reach  halfway  to  the  zenith, 
however ;  the  sky  above  was  blue,  of  such  a  depth  and 
transparency  that  to  gaze  upward  was  like  looking  into 
eternity.  Then  how  softly  and  soothingly  the  twilight 
came  on !  How  deep  a  hush  sank  on  the  chestnut  glades, 
broken  only  by  the  song  of  the  cicada  chirping  its  "  Good- 
night carol " !  The  mountains,  too !  How  majestic  they 
stood  in  their  deep  purple  outlines! 

Sweet,  sweet  Italy !  I  can  feel  now  how  the  soul  may 
cling  to  thee,  since  thou  canst  thus  gratify  its  insatiable 
thirst  for  the  Beautiful.  Even  thy  plainest  scene  is  clothed 
in  hues  that  seem  borrowed  of  heaven.  In  the  twilight 
more  radiant  than  light,  and  the  stillness  more  eloquent 
than  music,  which  sink  down  over  the  sunny  beauty  of  thy 
shores,  there  is  a  silent,  intense  poetry  that  stirs  the  soul 
through  all  its  impassioned  depths.  With  warm,  blissful 
tears  filling  the  eyes  and  a  heart  overflowing  with  its 
own  bright  fancies,  I  wander  in  the  solitude  and  calm 
of  such  a  time,  and  love  thee  as  if  I  were  a  child  of  thy 
soil. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

WALK   TO   SIENA   AND    PRATOLINO. — INCIDENTS    IN   FLOR- 
ENCE. 

October  16. 

My  cousin,  being  anxious  to  visit  Rome  and  reach  Hei- 
delberg before  the  commencement  of  the  winter  semester, 
set  out,  toward  the  end  of  September,  on  foot.  We  accom- 
panied him  as  far  as  Siena,  forty  miles  distant.  As  I 
shall  most  probably  take  another  road  to  the  Eternal  City, 


PRECAUTIONARY  MEASURES.  315 

the  present  is  a  good  opportunity  to  say  something  of  that 
romantic  old  town,  so  famous  throughout  Italy  for  the  hon- 
esty of  its  inhabitants. 

We  dined  the  first  day  seventeen  miles  from  Florence,  at 
Tavenella,  where  for  a  meagre  dinner  the  hostess^  had  the 
assurance  to  ask  us  seven  pcnds.  We  told  her  we  would 
give  but  four  and  a  half,  and  by  assuming  a  decided  man- 
ner, with  a  plentiful  use  of  the  word  signora,  she  was  per- 
suaded to  be  fully  satisfied  with  the  latter  sum.  From  a 
height  near  we  could  see  the  mountains  coasting  the  Medi- 
terranean, and  shortly  after,  on  descending  a  long  hill,  the 
little  town  of  Poggibonsi  lay  in  the  warm  afternoon  light 
on  an  eminence  before  us.  It  was  soon  passed  with  its 
dusky  towers,  then  Stagia  looking  desolate  in  its  ruined  and 
ivied  walls,  and,  following  the  advice  of  a  peasant,  we 
stopped  for  the  night  at  the  inn  of  Querciola.  As  we 
knew  something  of  Italian  by  this  time,  we  thought  it  best 
to  inquire  the  price  of  lodging  before  entering.  The  pa- 
drone asked  if  we  meant  to  take  supper  also.  We  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  "  Then,"  said  he,  "  you  will  pay  half  a 
paid"  (about  five  cents)  "  apiece  for  a  bed." 

We  passed  under  the  swinging  bunch  of  boughs  which  in 
Italy  is  the  universal  sign  of  an  inn  for  the  common  peo- 
ple, and  entered  the  bare,  smoky  room  appropriated  to 
travellers.  A  long  table  with  well-worn  benches  was  the 
only  furniture ;  we  threw  our  knapsacks  on  one  end  of  it 
and  sat  down,  amusing  ourselves,  while  supper  w^as  prepar- 
ing, in  looking  at  a  number  of  grotesque  charcoal  draw- 
ings on  the  wTall  which  the  flaring  light  of  our  tall  iron 
lamp  revealed  to  us.  At  length  the  hostess — a  kindly- 
looking  woman  with  a  white  handkerchief  folded  gracefully 
around  her  head— brought  us  a  dish  of  fried  eggs,  which, 
with  the  coarse  black  bread  of  the  peasants  and  a  basketful 
of  rich  grapes,  made  us  an  excellent  supper.  We  slept  on 
mattresses  stuffed  with  corn-husks,  placed  on  square  iron 
frames,  which  are  the  bedsteads  most  used  in  Italy.     A 


316  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

brightly-painted  caricature  of  some  saint  or  a  rough  cruci- 
fix, trimmed  with  bay-leaves,  hung  at  the  head  of  each  bed, 
and  under  their  devout  protection  we  enjoyed  a  safe  and 
unbroken  slumber. 

Next  morning  we  set  out  early  to  complete  the  remaining 
ten  miles'  to  Siena.  The  only  thing  of  interest  on  the  road 
is  the  ruined  wall  and  battlements  of  Castiglione,  circling 
a  high  hill  and  looking  as  old  as  the  days  of  Etruria.  The 
towers  of  Siena  are  seen  at  some  distance,  but,  approaching 
it  from  this  side,  the  traveller  does  not  perceive  its  romantic 
situation  until  he  arrives.  It  stands  on  a  double  hill  which 
is  very  steep  on  some  sides.  The  hollow  between  the  two 
peaks  is  occupied  by  the  great  public  square,  ten  or  fifteen 
feet. lower  than  the  rest  of  the  city.  We  left  our  knapsacks 
at  a  cafe  and  sought  the  celebrated  cathedral,  which  stands 
in  the  highest  part  of  the  town,  forming  with  its  flat  dome 
and  lofty  marble  tower  an  apex  to  the  pyramidal  mass  of 
buildings.  The  interior  is  rich  and  elegantly  perfect. 
Every  part  is  of  black  and  white  marble,  in  what  I  should 
call  the  striped  style,  which  has  a  singular  but  agreeable 
effect.  The  inside  of  the  dome  and  the  vaulted  ceilings  of 
the  chapels  are  of  blue,  with  golden  stars ;  the  pavement 
in  the  centre  is  so  precious  a  work  that  it  is  kept  covered 
with  boards  and  only  shown  once  a  year. 

There  are  some  pictures  of  great  value  in  this  cathedral ; 
one,  of  "  The  Descent  of  the  Dove,"  is  worthy  of  the  best 
days  of  Italian  art.  In  an  adjoining  chamber  with  frescoed 
walls  and  a  beautiful  tessellated  pavement  is  the  library, 
consisting  of  a  few  huge  old  volumes  which,  with  their 
brown  covers  and  brazen  clasps,  look  as  much  like  a  collec- 
tion of  flat  leather  trunks  as  anything  else.  In  the  centre 
of  the  room  stands  the  mutilated  group  of  the  Grecian 
Graces  found  in  digging  the  foundation  of  the  cathedral. 
The  figures  are  still  beautiful  and  graceful,  with  that  exqui- 
site curve  of  outline  which  is  such  a  charm  in  the  antique 


AN  INTELLIGENT  GERMAN.  317 

statues.  Canova  has  only  perfected  the  idea  in  his  cele- 
brated group,  which  is  nearly  a  copy  of  this. 

We  strolled  through  the  square,  and  then  accompanied  our 
friend  to  the  Roman  gate,  where  we  took  leave  of  him  for 
six  months  at  least.  He  felt  lonely  at  the  thought  of  walk- 
ing in  Italy  without  a  companion,  but  was  cheered  by  the 
anticipation  of  soon  reaching  Rome.  We  watched  him  a 
while  walking  rapidly  over  the  hot  plain  toward  Radico- 
fani,  and  then,  turning  our  faces  with  much  pleasure  toward 
Florence,  we  commenced  the  return  walk.  I  must  not  for- 
get to  mention  the  delicious  grapes  which  we  bought,  begged 
and  stole  on  the  way.  The  whole  country  is  like  one  vine- 
yard, and  the  people  live,  in  a  great  measure,  on  the  fruit 
during  this  part  of  the  year.  Would  you  not  think  it 
highly  romantic  and  agreeable  to  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  cy- 
press grove,  beside  some  old  weatherbeaten  statues,  looking 
out  over  the  vales  of  the  Apennines,  with  a  pile  of  white 
and  purple  grapes  beside  you  the  like  of  which  can  scarcely 
be  had  in  America  for  love  or  money,  and  which  had  been 
given  you  by  a  dark-eyed  peasant-girl  ?  If  so,  you  may 
envy  us,  for  such  was  exactly  our  situation  on  the  morning 
before  reaching  Florence. 

Being  in  the  Duomo  two  or  three  days  ago,  I  met  a  Ger- 
man traveller  who  has  walked  through  Italy  thus  far,  and 
intends  continuing  his  journey  to  Rome  and  Naples.  His 
name  is  Von  Raumer.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
present  state  of  America,  and  I  derived  much  pleasure  from 
his  intelligent  conversation.  We  concluded  to  ascend  the 
cupola  in  company.  Two  black-robed  boys  led  the  way. 
After  climbing  an  infinite  number  of  steps,  we  reached  the 
gallery  around  the  foot  of  the  dome.  The  glorious  view  of 
that  paradise  the  vale  of  the  Arno,  shut  in  on  all  sides  by 
mountains,  some  bare  and  desolate,  some  covered  with  villas, 
gardens  and  groves,  lay  in  soft,  hazy  light,  with  the  shadows 
of  a  few  light  clouds  moving  slowly  across  it.  They  next 
took  us  to  a  gallery  on  the  inside  of  the  dome,  where  we  first 


318  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

saw  the  immensity  of  its  structure.  Only  from  a  distant 
view  or  in  ascending  it  can  one  really  measure  its  grandeur. 
The  frescos,  which  from  below  appear  the  size  of  life,  are 
found  to  be  rough  and  monstrous  daubs,  each  figure  being 
nearly  as  many  fathoms  in  length  as  a  man  is  feet.  Con- 
tinuing our  ascent,  we  mounted  between  the  inside  and  out- 
side shells  of  the  dome.  It  was  indeed  a  bold  idea  for  Bru- 
nelleschi  to  raise  such  a  mass  in  air.  The  dome  of  St. 
Peter's,  which  is  scarcely  as  large,  was  not  made  until  a 
century  after,  and  this  was,  therefore,  the  first  attempt  at 
raising  one  on  so  grand  a  scale.  It  seems  still  as  solid  as 
if  just  built. 

There  was  a  small  door  in  one  of  the  projections  of  the 
lantern,  which  the  sacristan  told  us  to  enter  and  ascend  still 
higher.  Supposing  there  was  a  fine  view  to  be  gained,  two 
priests  who  had  just  come  up  entered  it;  the  German  fol- 
lowed, and  I  after  him.  After  crawling  in  at  the  low  door, 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  hollow  pillar  little  wider  than  our 
bodies.  Looking  up,  I  saw  the  German's  legs  just  above 
my  head,  Avhile  the  other  two  were  above  him,  ascending 
by  means  of  little  iron  bars  fastened  in  the  marble.  The 
priests  were  very  much  amused,  and  the  German  said,  "  This 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  learned  chimney-sweeping."  We 
emerged  at  length  into  a  hollow  cone,  hot  and  dark,  with  a 
rickety  ladder  going  up  somewhere — we  could  not  see  where. 
The  old  priest,  not  wishing  to  trust  himself  to  it,  sent  his 
younger  brother  up,  and  we  shouted  after  him,  "What  kind 
of  a  view  have  you  ?"  He  climbed  up  till  the  cone  got  so 
narrow  he  could  go  no  farther,  and  answered  back  in  the 
darkness,  "  I  see  nothing  at  all."  Shortly  after  he  came 
down  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  we  all  descended 
the  chimney  quicker  than  we  went  up.  The  old  priest  con- 
sidered it  a  good  joke,  and  laughed  till  his  fat  sides  shook. 
We  asked  the  sacristan  why  he  sent  us  up,  and  he  answered, 
"  To  see  the  construction  of  the  church." 

I  attended  service  in  the  cathedral  one  dark,  rainy  morn- 


DEPARTED  SUNSHINE.  319 

ing,  and  was  never  before  so  deeply  impressed  with  the 
majesty  and  grandeur  of  the  mighty  edifice.  The  thick, 
cloudy  atmosphere  darkened  still  more  the  light  which 
came  through  the  stained  windows,  and  a  solemn  twilight 
reigned  in  the  long  aisles.  The  mighty  dome  sprang  far 
aloft,  as  if  it  enclosed  a  part  of  heaven,  for  the  light  that 
struggled  through  the  windows  around  its  base  lay  in  broad 
bars  on  the  blue,  hazy  air.  I  would  not  have  been  sur- 
prised at  seeing  a  cloud  float  along  within  it.  The  lofty 
burst  of  the  organ,  that  seemed  like  the  pantings  of  a  mon- 
ster, boomed  echoing  away  through  dome  and  nave  with  a 
chiming,  metallic  vibration  that  shook  the  massive  pillars 
which  it  would  defy  an  earthquake  to  rend.  All  was 
wrapped  in  dusky  obscurity  except  where,  in  the  side- 
chapels,  crowns  of  tapers  were  burning  around  the  images. 
One  knows  not  which  most  to  admire,  the  genius  which 
could  conceive  or  the  perseverance  which  could  accomplish 
such  a  work.  On  one  side  of  the  square  the  colossal  statue 
of  the  architect — glorious  old  Brunelleschi — is  most  appro- 
priately placed,  looking  up  with  pride  at  his  performance. 

The  sunshine  and  genial  airs  of  Italy  have  gone,  leaving, 
instead,  a  cold,  gloomy  sky  and  chilling  winds.  The  au- 
tumnal season  has  fairly  commenced,  and  I  suppose  I  must 
bid  adieu  to  the  brightness  which  made  me  in  love  with  the 
land.  The  change  has  been  no  less  sudden  than  unpleasant ; 
and  if,  as  they  say,  it  will  continue  all  winter  with  little 
variation,  I  shall  have  to  seek  a  clearer  climate.  In  the 
cold  of  these  European  winters  there  is,  as  I  observed  last 
year  in  Germany,  a  dull,  damp  chill  quite  different  from 
the  bracing,  exhilarating  frosts  of  America.  It  stagnates 
the  vital  principle  and  leaves  the  limbs  dull  and  heavy, 
with  a  lifeless  feeling  which  can  scarcely  be  overcome  by 
vigorous  action.     At  least,  such  has  been  my  experience. 

"We  lately  made  an  excursion  to  Pratolino,  on  the  Apen- 
nines, to  see  the  vintage  and  the  celebrated  Colossus  by 
John  of  Bologna.     Leaving  Florence  in  the  morning  with 


320  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

a  cool,  fresh  wind  blowing  down  from  the  mountains,  we  be- 
gan ascending  by  the  road  to  Bologna.  We  passed  Fiesole 
with  its  tower  and  Acropolis  on  the  right,  ascending  slowly, 
with  the  bold  peak  of  one  of  the  loftiest  Apennines  on  our 
left.  The  abundant  fruit  of  the  olive  was  beginning  to  turn 
brown  and  the  grapes  were  all  gathered  in  from  the  vine- 
yards, but  we  learned  from  a  peasant-boy  that  the  vintage 
was  not  finished  at  Pratolino. 

We  finally  arrived  at  an  avenue,  shaded  with  sycamores, 
leading  to  the  royal  park.  The  vintagers  were  busy  in  the 
fields  around  unloading  the  vines  of  their  purple  tribute, 
and  many  a  laugh  and  jest  among  the  merry  peasants  en- 
livened the  toil.  We  assisted  them  in  disposing  of  some 
fine  clusters,  and  then  sought  the  "  Colossus  of  the  Apen- 
nines." He  stands  above  a  little  lake,  at  the  head  of  a  long 
mountain-slope  broken  with  clumps  of  magnificent  trees. 
This  remarkable  figure,  the  work  of  John  of  Bologna,  im- 
presses one  like  a  relic  of  the  Titans.  He  is  represented  as 
half  kneeling,  supporting  himself  with  one  hand,  while  the 
other  is  pressed  upon  the  head  of  a  dolphin  from  which  a 
little  stream  falls  into  the  lake.  The  height  of  the  figure, 
when  erect,  would  amount  to  more  than  sixty  feet.  We 
measured  one  of  the  feet,  which  is  a  single  piece  of  rock 
about  eight  feet  long ;  from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  one 
knee  is  nearly  twenty  feet.  The  limbs  are  formed  of  pieces 
of  stone  joined  together,  and  the  body  of  stone  and  brick. 
His  rough  hair  and  eyebrows  and  the  beard,  which  reached 
nearly  to  the  ground,  are  formed  of  stalactites  taken  from 
caves,  and  fastened  together  in  a  dripping  and  crusted 
mass.  These  hung  also  from  his  limbs  and  body,  and  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  Winter  in  his  mail  of  icicles.  By 
climbing  up  the  rocks  at  his  back  we  entered  his  body, 
which  contains  a  small-sized  room  ;  it  was  even  possible  to 
ascend  through  his  neck  and  look  out  at  his  ear.  The  face 
is  in  keeping  with  the  figure — stern  and  grand — and  the 
architect  (one  can  hardly  say  "  sculptor  ")  has  given  to  it 


A  LIBERAL  GOVERNMENT.  321 

the  majestic  air  and  sublimity  of  the  Apennines.     But  who 
can  build  up  an  image  of  the  Alp  ? 

We  visited  the  factory  on  the  estate  where  wine  and  oil 
are  made.  The  men  had  just  brought  in  a  cart-load  of  large 
wooden  vessels  filled  with  grapes,  which  they  were  mashing 
with  heavy  wooden  pestles.  When  the  grapes  were  pretty 
well  reduced  to  pulp  and  juice,  they  emptied  them  into  an 
enormous  tun,  which,  they  told  us,  would  be  covered  air- 
tight and  left  for  three  or  four  weeks,  after  which  the  wine 
would  be  drawn  off  at  the  bottom;  They  showed  us  also  a 
great  stone  mill  for  grinding  olives.  This  estate  of  the 
grand  duke  produces  five  hundred  barrels  of  wine  and  a 
hundred  and  fifty  of  oil  every  year.  The  former  article  is 
the  universal  beverage  of  the  laboi'ing  classes  in  Italy — or, 
I  might  say,  of  all  classes ;  it  is,  however,  the  pure  blood  of 
the  grape,  and,  although  used  in  such  quantities,  one  sees 
little  drunkenness — far  less  than  in  our  own  land. 

Tuscany  enjoys  at  present  a  more  liberal  government 
than  any  other  part  of  Italy,  and  the  people  are  in  many 
respects  prosperous  and  happy.  The  grand  duke,  although 
enjoying  almost  absolute  privileges,  is  disposed  to  encourage 
every  measure  which  may  promote  the  welfare  of  his  sub- 
jects. The  people  are,  indeed,  very  heavily  taxed,  but  this 
is  less  severely  felt  by  them  than  it  would  be  by  the  in- 
habitants of  colder  climes.  The  soil  produces,  with  little 
labor,  all  that  is  necessary  for  their  support ;  though  kept 
constantly  in  a  state  of  comparative  poverty,  they  appear 
satisfied  with  their  lot,  and  rarely  look  farther  than  the  ne- 
cessities of  the  present.  In  love  with  the  delightful  climate, 
they  cherish  their  country,  fallen  as  she  is,  and  are  rarely 
induced  to  leave  her.  Even  the  wealthier  classes  of  the 
Italians  travel  very  little ;  they  can  learn  the  manners  and 
habits  of  foreigners  nearly  as  well  in  their  own  country  as 
elsewhere,  and  they  prefer  their  own  hills  of  olive  and  vine 
to  the  icy  grandeur  of  the  Alps  or  the  rich  and  garden-like 
beauty  of  England. 

21 


322  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

But,  although  this  sweet  climate,  with  its  wealth  of  sun- 
light and  balmy  airs,  may  enchant  the  traveller  for  a  while 
and  make  him  wish  at  times  that  his  whole  life  might  be 
spent  amid  such  scenes,  it  exercises  a  most  enervating  in- 
fluence on  those  who  are  born  to  its  enjoyment.  It  relaxes 
mental  and  physical  energy  and  disposes  body  and  mind  to 
dreamy  inactivity.  The  Italians,  as  a  race,  are  indolent 
and  effeminate.  Of  the  moral  dignity  of  man  they  have 
little  conception.  Those  classes  who  are  engaged  in  active 
occupation  seem  even  destitute  of  common  honesty,  prac- 
tising all  kinds  of  deceits  in  the  most  open  manner,  and 
apparently  without  the  least  shame.  The  state  of  morals 
is  lower  than  in  any  other  country  of  Europe ;  what  little 
virtue  exists  is  found  among  the  peasants.  Many  of  the 
most  sacred  obligations  of  society  are  universally  violated, 
and  as  a  natural  consequence  the  people  are  almost  entire 
strangers  to  that  domestic  happiness  which  constitutes  the 
true  enjoyment  of  life. 

This  dark  shadow  in  the  moral  atmosphere  of  Italy  hangs 
like  a  curse  on  her  beautiful  soil,  weakening  the  sympathies 
of  citizens  of  freer  lands  with  her  fallen  condition.  I  often 
feel  vividly  the  sentiment  which  Percival  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  a  Greek  in  slavery: 

"  The  Spring  may  here  with  Autumn  twine, 
And  botli  combined  may  rule  the  year, 
And  fresh-blown  flowers  and  racy  wine 

In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near: 
Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills 
Where  hale  and  ruddy  Freedom  smiles." 

No  people  can  ever  become  truly  great  or  free  who  are 
not  virtuous.  If  the  soul  aspires  for  liberty — pure  and 
perfect  liberty — it  also  aspires  for  everything  that  is  noble 
in  truth,  everything  that  is  holy  in  virtue.  It  is  greatly  to 
be  feared  that  all  those  nervous  and  impatient  efforts  which 
have  been  made,  and  are  still  being  made,  by  the  Italian 


THE  CASCINE  KACES.  323 

people  to  better  their  condition  will  be  of  little  avail  until 
they  set  up  a  better  standard  of  principle  and  make  their 
private  actions  more  conformable  with  their  ideas  of  politi- 
cal independence. 

Oct.  22. 

I  attended  to-day  the  fall  races  at  the  Cascine.  This  is 
a  dairy-farm  of  the  grand  duke  on  the  Arno,  below  the 
city ;  part  of  it,  shaded  with  magnificent  trees,  has  been 
made  into  a  public  promenade  and  drive  which  extends  for 
three  miles  down  the  river.  Toward  the  lower  end,  on  a 
smooth  green  lawn,  is  the  race-course.  To-day  was  the  last 
of  the  season,  for  which  the  best  trials  had  been  reserved. 
On  passing  out  the  gate  at  noon  we  found  a  number  of  car- 
riages and  pedestrians  going  the  same  way.  It  was  the 
very  perfection  of  autumn  temperature,  and  I  do  not  re- 
member to  have  ever  seen  so  blue  hills,  so  green  meadows, 
60  fresh  air  and  so  bright  sunshine  combined  in  one  scene 
before.  All  that  gloom  and  coldness  of  which  I  lately  com- 
plained has  vanished. 

Travelling  increases  very  much  one's  capacity  for  admi- 
ration. Every  beautiful  scene  appears  as  beautiful  as  if  it 
had  been  the  first,  and,  although  I  may  have  seen  a  hundred 
times  as  lovely  a  combination  of  sky  and  landscape,  the 
pleasure  which  it  awakens  is  never  diminished.  This  is 
one  of  the  greatest  blessings  we  enjoy — the  freshness  and 
glory  which  Nature  wears  to  our  eyes  for  ever.  It  shows 
that  the  soul  never  grows  old — that  the  eye  of  age  can  take 
in  the  impression  of  beauty  with  the  same  enthusiastic  joy 
that  leaped  through  the  heart  of  childhood. 

We  found  the  crowd  around  the  race-course  but  thin ; 
half  the  people  there,  and  all  the  horses,  appeared  to  be 
English.  It  was  a  good  place  to  observe  the  beauty  of 
Florence,  which,  however,  may  be  done  in  a  short  time,  as 
there  is  not  much  of  it.  There  is  beauty  in  Italy,  undoubt- 
edly, but  it  is  either  among  the  peasants  or  the  higher  class 
of  nobility.    I  will  tell  our  American  women  confidentially 


324  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

— for  I  know  they  have  too  much  sense  to  be  vain  of  it — 
that  they  surpass  the  rest  of  the  world  as  much  in  beauty 
as  they  do  in  intelligence  and  virtue.  I  saw  in  one  of  the 
carriages  the  wife  of  Alexander  Dumas,  the  French  author. 
She  is  a  large,  fair-complexioned  woman,  and  is  now — from 
what  cause  I  know  not — living  apart  from  her  husband. 

The  jockeys  paced  up  and  down  the  fields,  preparing 
their  beautiful  animals  for  the  approaching  heat,  and  as  the 
hour  drew  nigh  the  mounted  dragoons  busied  themselves  in 
clearing  the  space.  It  was  a  one-mile  course,  to  the  end 
of  the  lawn  and  back.  At  last  the  bugle  sounded,  and  off 
went  three  steeds  like  arrows  let  fly.  They  passed  us,  their 
light  limbs  bounding  over  the  turf,  a  beautiful  dark-brown 
taking  the  lead.  We  leaned  over  the  railing  and  watched 
them  eagerly.  The  bell  rang.  They  reached  the  other  end ; 
we  saw  them  turn  and  come  dashing  back — nearer,  nearer. 
The  crowd  began  to  shout,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  brown 
one  had  won  it  by  four  or  five  lengths.  The  fortunate  horse 
was  led  around  in  triumph,  and  I  saw  an  English  lady  re- 
markable for  her  betting  propensities  come  out  from  the 
crowd  and  kiss  it  in  apparent  delight. 

After  an  interval  three  others  took  the  field — all  grace- 
ful, spirited  creatures.  This  was  a  more  exciting  race  than 
the  first ;  they  flew  past  us  nearly  abreast,  and  the  crowd 
looked  after  them  in  anxiety.  They  cleared  the  course  like 
wild  deer,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  came  back,  the  racer  of 
an  English  nobleman  a  short  distance  ahead.  The  jockey 
threw  up  his  hand  in  token  of  triumph  as  he  approached 
the  goal,  and  the  people  cheered  him.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight  to  see  those  noble  animals  stretching  to  the  utmost  of 
their  speed  as  they  dashed  down  the  grassy  lawn.  The 
lucky  one  always  showed  by  his  proud  and  erect  carriage 
his  consciousness  of  success. 

Florence  is  fast  becoming  modernized.  The  introduction 
of  gas  and  the  construction  of  the  railroad  to  Pisa,  which 


NATAL  FESTIVITIES.  325 

is  nearly  completed,  will  make  sad  havoc  with  the  air  of 
poetry  which  still  lingers  in  its  silent  streets.  There  is 
scarcely  a  bridge,  a  tower  or  a  street  which  is  not  connected 
with  some  stirring  association.  In  the  Via  San  Felice, 
Raphael  used  to  paint  when  a  boy ;  near  the  Ponte  Santa 
Trinita  stands  Michael  Angelo's  house,  with  his  pictures, 
clothes  and  painting-implements  just  as  he  left  it  three  cen- 
turies ago ;  on  the  south  side  of  the  Arno  is  the  house  of 
Galileo,  and  that  of  Machiavelli  stands  in  an  avenue  near 
the  ducal  palace.  While  threading  my  way  through  some 
dark,  crooked  streets  in  an  unfrequented  part  of  the  city  I 
noticed  an  old  untenanted  house  bearing  a  marble  tablet 
above  the  door.  I  drew  near  and  read  :  "  In  this  house  of 
the  Alighieri  was  born  the  Divine  Poet !"  It  was  the  birth- 
place of  Dante! 

Nov.  l. 

Yesterday  morning  we  were  apprised  of  the  safe  arrival 
of  a  new  scion  of  the  royal  family  in  the  world  by  the  ring- 
ing of  the  city  bells.  To-day,  to  celebrate  the  event,  the 
shops  were  closed,  and  the  people  made  a  holiday  of  it. 
Merry  chimes  pealed  out  from  every  tower,  and  discharges 
of  cannon  thundered  up  from  the  fortress.  In  the  evening 
the  dome  of  the  cathedral  was  illuminated,  and  the  lines 
of  cupola,  lantern  and  cross  were  traced  in  flame  on  the 
dark  sky,  like  a  crown  of  burning  stars  dropped  from 
heaven  on  the  holy  pile.  I  went  in  and  walked  down  the 
aisle,  listening  for  a  while  to  the  grand  choral,  while  the 
clustered  tapers  under  the  dome  quivered  and  trembled  as 
if  shaken  by  the  waves  of  music  which  burst  continually 
within  its  lofty  concave. 

A  few  days  ago  Prince  Corsini,  prime  minister  of  Tus- 
cany, died  at  an  advanced  age.  I  saw  his  body  brought  in 
solemn  procession  by  night,  with  torches  and  tapers,  to  the 
church  of  Santa  Trinita.  Soldiers  followed  with  reversed 
arms  and  muffled  drums,  the  band  playing  a  funeral  march. 
I  forced  myself  through  the  crowd  into  the  church,  which 


326  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

was  hung  with  black  and  gold,  and  listened  to  the  long- 
drawn  chanting  of  the  priests  around  the  bier. 

We  lately  visited  the  Florentine  museum.  Besides  the 
usual  collection  of  objects  of  natural  history,  there  is  an 
anatomical  cabinet  very  celebrated  for  its  preparations  in 
wax.  All  parts  of  the  human  frame  are  represented  so 
wonderfully  exact  that  students  of  medicine  pursue  their 
studies  here  in  summer  with  the  same  facility  as  from  real 
"  subjects."  Every  bone,  muscle  and  nerve  in  the  body  is 
perfectly  counterfeited,  the  whole  forming  a  collection  as 
curious  as  it  is  useful.  One  chamber  is  occupied  with  rep- 
resentations of  the  plague  of  Rome,  Milan  and  Florence. 
They  are  executed  with  horrible  truth  to  nature,  but  I  re- 
gretted afterward  having  seen  them.  There  are  enough 
forms  of  beauty  and  delight  in  the  world  on  which  to  em- 
ploy the  eye,  without  making  it  familiar  with  scenes  which 
can  only  be  remembered  with  a  shudder. 

We  derive  much  pleasure  from  the  society  of  the  Ameri- 
can artists  who  are  now  residing  in  Florence.  At  the 
houses  of  Powers  and  Brown,  the  painter,  we  spend  many 
delightful  evenings  in  the  company  of  our  gifted  country- 
men. They  are  drawn  together  by  a  kindred  social  feeling 
as  well  as  by  their  mutual  aims,  and  form  among  them- 
selves a  society  so  unrestrained,  American-like,  that  the 
traveller  who  meets  them  forgets  his  absence  for  a  time. 
These  noble  representatives  of  our  country,  all  of  whom 
possess  the  true,  inborn  spirit  of  republicanism,  have  made 
the  American  name  known  and  respected  in  Florence. 
Powers  especially,  who  is  intimate  with  many  of  the  prin- 
cipal Italian  families,  is  universally  esteemed.  The  grand 
duke  has  more  than  once  visited  his  studio  and  expressed 
the  highest  admiration  of  his  talents. 


IBEAHIM  PACHA.  327 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

AMERICAN   ART   IN    FLORENCE. 

I  have  seen  Ibrahim  Pacha,  the  son  of  old  Mehemet  Ali, 
driving  in  his  carriage  through  the  streets.  He  is  here  on 
a  visit  from  Lucca,  where  he  has  been  spending  some  time 
on  account  of  his  health.  He  is  a  man  of  apparently  fifty 
years  of  age  ;  his  countenance  wears  a  stern  and  almost 
savage  look  very  consistent  with  the  character  he  bears  and 
the  political  part  he  has  played.  He  is  rather  portly  in 
person,  the  pale  olive  of  his  complexion  contrasting  strongly 
with  a  beard  perfectly  white.  In  common  with  all  his  at- 
tendants, he  wears  the  high  red  cap,  picturescpie  blue  tunic 
and  narrow  trowsers  of  the  Egyptians.  There  is  scarcely 
a  man  of  them  whose  face,  with  its  wild  Oriental  beauty, 
does  not  show  to  advantage  among  us  civilized  and  prosaic 
Christians. 

In  Florence— and,  indeed,  through  all  Italy — there  is 
much  reason  for  our  country  to  be  proud  of  the  high  stand 
her  artists  are  taking.  The  sons  of  our  rude  Western 
clime,  brought  up  without  other  resources  than  their  own 
genius  and  energy,  now  fairly  rival  those  who  from  their 
cradle  upward  have  drawn  inspiration  and  ambition  from 
the  glorious  masterpieces  of  the  old  painters  and  sculptors. 
Wherever  our  artists  are  known,  they  never  fail  to  create  a 
respect  for  American  talent,  and  to  dissipate  the  false  no- 
tions respecting  our  cultivation  and  refinement  which  pre- 
vail in  Europe.  There  are  now  eight  or  ten  of  our  painters 
and  sculptors  in  Florence,  some  of  whom,  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say,  take  the  very  first  rank  among  living  artists. 

I  have  been  highly  gratified  in  visiting  the  studio  of  Mr. 
G.  L.  Brown,  who  as  a  landscape-painter  is  destined  to 
take  a  stand  second  to  few  since  the  days  of  Claude  Lor- 
raine.    He  is  now  without  a  rival  in  Florence,  or  perhaps 


328  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

in  Italy,  and  has  youth,  genius  and  a  plentiful  stock  of  the 
true  poetic  enthusiasm  for  his  art  to  work  for  him  far 
greater  triumphs.  His  Italian  landscapes  have  that  golden 
mellowness  and  transparency  of  atmosphere  which  give 
such  a  charm  to  the  real  scenes,  and  one  would  think  he 
used  on  his  palette,  in  addition  to  the  more  substantial  col- 
ors, condensed  air  and  sunlight  and  the  liquid  crystal  of 
streams.  He  has  wooed  Nature  like  a  lover,  and  she  has 
not  withheld  her  sympathy.  She  has  taught  him  how  to 
raise  and  curve  her  trees,  load  their  boughs  with  foliage 
and  spread  underneath  them  the  broad,  cool  shadows — to 
pile  up  the  shattered  crag  and  steep  the  long  mountain- 
range  in  the  haze  of  alluring  distance. 

He  has  now  nearly  finished  a  large  painting  of  "  Christ 
Preaching  in  the  Wilderness,"  which  is  of  surprising  beauty. 
You  look  upon  one  of  the  fairest  scenes  of  Judea.  In  front 
the  rude  multitude  are  grouped  on  one  side  in  the  edge  of 
a  magnificent  forest ;  on  the  other  side  towers  up  a  rough 
wall  of  rock  and  foliage  that  stretches  back  into  the  dis- 
tance, where  some  grand  blue  mountains  are  piled  against 
the  sky,  and  a  beautiful  stream,  winding  through  the  mid- 
dle of  the  picture,  slides  away  out  of  the  foreground.  Just 
emerging  from  the  shade  of  one  of  the  cliffs  is  the  benign 
figure  of  the  Saviour,  with  the  warm  light  which  breaks 
from  behind  the  trees  falling  around  him  as  he  advances. 
There  is  a  smaller  picture  of  the  "  Shipwreck  of  St.  Paul," 
in  which  he  shows  equal  skill  in  painting  a  troubled  sea  and 
breaking  storm.  He  is  one  of  the  young  artists  from  whom 
we  have  most  to  hope. 

I  have  been  extremely  interested  in  looking  over  a  great 
number  of  sketches  made  by  Mr.  Kellogg  of  Cincinnati 
during  a  tour  through  Egypt,  Arabia  Petra  and  Palestine. 
He  visited  many  places  out  of  the  general  route  of  travel- 
lers, and,  besides  the  great  number  of  landscape  views, 
brought  away  many  sketches  of  the  characters  and  costumes 
of  the  Orient.  From  some  of  these  he  has  commenced  paint- 


AMEEICAN  ARTISTS.  329 

ings  which,  as  his  genius  is  equal  to  his  practice,  will  be  of 
no  ordinary  value.  Indeed,  some  of  these  must  give  him  at 
once  an  established  reputation  in  America.  In  Constanti- 
nople, where  he  resided  several  months,  he  enjoyed  peculiar 
advantages  for  the  exercise  of  his  art  through  the  favor  and 
influence  of  Mr.  Carr,  the  American,  and  Sir  Stratford 
Canning,  the  British,  minister.  I  saw  a  splendid  diamond 
cup,  presented  to  him  by  Riza  Pacha,  the  late  grand  vizier. 
The  sketches  he  brought  from  thence  and  from  the  valleys 
of  Phrygia  and  the  mountain-solitudes  of  old  Olympus  are 
of  great  interest  and  value.  Among  his  later  paintings  I 
might  mention  an  angel  whose  countenance  beams  with  a 
rapt  and  glorious  beauty.  A  divine  light  shines  through 
all  the  features  and  heightens  the  glow  of  adoration  to  an 
expression  all  spiritual  and  immortal.  If  Mr.  Kellogg 
will  give  us  a  few  more  of  these  heavenly  conceptions, 
we  will  place  him  on  a  pedestal  little  lower  than  that  of 
Guido. 

Greenough,  who  has  been  some  time  in  Germany,  returned 
lately  to  Florence,  where  he  has  a  colossal  group  in  progress 
for  the  portico  of  the  Capitol.  I  have  seen  part  of  it,  Avhich 
is  nearly  finished  in  the  marble.  It  shows  a  backwoodsman 
just  triumphing  in  the  struggle  with  an  Indian ;  another 
group,  to  be  added,  will  represent  the  wife  and  child  of  the 
former.  The  colossal  size  of  the  statues  gives  a  grandeur 
to  the  action,  as  if  it  were  a  combat  of  Titans ;  there  is  a 
consciousness  of  power,  an  expression  of  lofty  disdain,  in  the 
expansion  of  the  hunter's  nostril  and  the  proud  curve  of  his 
lip,  that  might  become  a  god.  The  spirit  of  action,  of 
breathing,  life-like  exertion,  so  much  more  difficult  to  infuse 
into  the  marble  than  that  of  repose,  is  perfectly  attained.  I 
will  not  enter  into  a  more  particular  description,  as  it  will 
probably  be  sent  to  the  United  States  in  a  year  or  two.  It 
is  a  magnificent  work — the  best,  unquestionably,  that 
Greenough  has  yet  made.  The  subject,  and  the  grandeur 
he  has  given  it  in  the  execution,  will  insure  it  a  much  more 


330  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

favorable  reception  than  a  false  taste  gave  to  his  Wash- 
ington. 

Mr.  C.  B.  Ives,  a  young  sculptor  from  Connecticut,  has 
not  disappointed  the  high  promise  he  gave  before  leaving 
home.  I  was  struck  with  some  of  his  busts  in  Philadelphia 
— particularly  those  of  Mrs.  Sigourney  and  Joseph  R. 
Chandler — and  it  has  been  no  common  pleasure  to  visit  his 
studio  here  in  Florence  and  look  on  some  of  his  ideal  works. 
He  has  lately  made  two  models  which,  when  finished  in 
marble,  will  be  works  of  great  beauty.  They  will  contribute 
greatly  to  his  reputation  here  and  in  America.  One  of 
these  represents  a  child  of  four  or  five  years  of  age  holding 
in  his  hand  a  dead  bird  on  which  he  is  gazing  with  childish 
grief  and  wonder  that  it  is  so  still  and- drooping.  It  is  a 
beautiful  thought.  The  boy  is  leaning  forward  as  he  sits, 
holding  the  lifeless  playmate  close  in  his  hands,  his  sadness 
touched  with  a  vague  expression,  as  if  he  could  not  yet 
comprehend  the  idea  of  death. 

The  other  is  of  equal  excellence,  in  a  different  style ;  it  is 
a  bust  of  Jephthah's  daughter  when  the  consciousness  of  her 
doom  first  flashes  upon  her.  The  face  and  bust  are  beauti- 
ful with  the  bloom  of  perfect  girlhood.  A  simple  robe  covers 
her  breast,  and  her  rich  hair  is  gathered  up  behind  and 
bound  with  a  slender  fillet.  Her  head,  of  the  pure,  classical 
mould,  is  bent  forward  as  if  weighed  down  by  the  shock,  and 
there  is  a  heavy  drooping  in  the  mouth  and  eyelids  that  de- 
notes a  sudden  and  sickening  agony.  It  is  not  a  violent, 
passionate  grief,  but  a  deep  and  almost  paralyzing  emotion — 
a  shock  from  which  the  soul  will  finally  rebound  strength- 
ened to  make  the  sacrifice. 

Would  it  not  be  better  for  some  scores  of  our  rich  mer- 
chants to  lay  out  their  money  on  statues  and  pictures,  in- 
stead of  balls  and  spendthrift  sons?  A  few  such  expendi- 
tures, properly  directed,  would  do  much  for  the  advance- 
ment of  the  fine  arts.  An  occasional  golden  blessing  be- 
stowed on  genius  might  be  returned  on  the  giver  in  the 


POWERS.  331 

fame  he  had  assisted  in  creating.  There  seems,  however,  to 
be  at  present  a  rapid  increase  in  refined  taste  and  a  better 
appreciation  of  artistic  talent  in  our  country,  and,  as  an 
American,  nothing  has  made  me  feel  prouder  than  this,  and 
the  steadily  increasing  reputation  of  our  artists. 

Of  these,  no  one  has  done  more  within  the  last  few  years 
than  Powers.  With  a  tireless  and  persevering  energy  such 
as  could  have  belonged  to  but  few  Americans  he  has  al- 
ready gained  a  name  in  his  art  that  posterity  will  pronounce 
in  the  same  breath  with  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo  and  Thor- 
waldsen.  I  cannot  describe  the  enjoyment  I  have  derived 
from  looking  at  his  matchless  works.  I  should  hesitate  in 
giving  my  own  imperfect  judgment  of  their  excellence  if  I 
had  not  found  it  to  coincide  with  that  of  many  others  who 
are  better  versed  in  the  rules  of  art.  The  sensation  which 
his  "  Greek  Slave  "  produced  in  England  has  doubtless  ere 
this  been  breezed  across  the  Atlantic,  and  I  see  by  the  late 
American  papers  that  they  are  growing  familiar  with  his 
fame.  When  I  read  a  notice,  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  of 
the  young  sculptor  of  Cincinnati  whose  busts  exhibited  so 
much  evidence  of  genius,  I  little  dreamed  I  should  meet 
him  in  Florence  with  the  experience  of  years  of  toil  added 
to  his  early  enthusiasm  and  every  day  increasing  his  re- 
nown. 

You  would  like  to  hear  of  his  statue  of  Eve,  which  men 
of  taste  pronounce  one  of  the  finest  works  of  modern  times. 
A  more  perfect  figure  never  filled  my  eye.  I  have  seen  the 
masterpieces  of  Thorwaldsen,  Dannecker  and  Canova,  and 
the  Venus  de  Medici,  but  I  have  seen  nothing  yet  that  can 
exceed  the  beauty  of  this  glorious  statue.  So  completely  did 
the  first  view  excite  my  surprise  and  delight  and  thrill  every 
feeling  that  awakes  at  the  sight  of  the  Beautiful  that  my 
mind  dwelt  intensely  on  it  for  days  afterward.  This  is  the 
Eve  of  Scripture,  the  Eve  of  Milton— mother  of  mankind 
and  fairest  of  all  her  race.  With  the  full  and  majestic 
beauty  of  ripened  womanhood,  she  wears  the  purity  of  a 


332  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

world  as  yet  unknown  to  sin ;  with  the  bearing  of  a  queen, 
there  is  in  her  countenance  the  softness  and  grace  of  a  ten- 
der, loving  woman. 

"  God-like  erect,  with  native  honor  clad 
In  naked  majesty," 

she  holds  the  fatal  fruit  extended  in  her  hand,  and  her  face 
expresses  the  struggle  between  conscience,  dread  and  desire. 
The  serpent,  whose  coiled  length  under  the  leaves  and  flow- 
ers entirely  surrounds  her,  thus  forming  a  beautiful  alle- 
gorical symbol,  is  watching  her  decision  from  an  ivied  trunk 
at  her  side.  Her  form  is  said  to  be  fully  as  perfect  as  the 
Venus  de  Medici,  and,  from  its  greater  size,  has  an  air  of 
conscious  and  ennobling  dignity.  The  head  is  far  superior 
in  beauty,  and  soul  speaks  from  every  feature  of  the  coun- 
tenance. I  add  a  few  stanzas  which  the  contemplation  of 
this  statue  called  forth.  Though  unworthy  the  subject, 
they  may  perhaps  faintly  shadow  the  sentiment  which  Pow- 
ers has  so  eloquently  embodied  in  marble : 

THE  "EVE"  OF  POWERS. 

A  faultless  being  from  the  marble  sprung, 

She  stands  in  beauty  there, 
As  when  the  grace  of  Eden  'round  her  clung, 

Fairest  where  all  was  fair. 
Pine  as  when  first  from  God's  creating  hand 

She  came  on  man  to  shine, 
So  seems  she  now  in  living  stone  to  stand — 

A  mortal,  yet  divine ! 

The  spark  the  Grecian  from  Olympus  caught 

Left  not  a  loftier  trace ; 
The  daring  of  the  sculptor's  hand  lias  wrought 

A  soul  in  that  sweet  face. 
He  won,  as  well,  the  sacred  fire  from  heaven — 

God-sent,  not  stolen  down — 
And  no  Promethean  doom  for  him  is  given, 

But  ages  of  renown. 


THE  "EVE"   OF  POWERS.  333 

The  soul  of  beauty  breathes  around  that  form 

A  more  enchanting  spell ; 
There  blooms  each  virgin  grace  ere  yet  the  storm 

On  blighted  Eden  fell. 
The  first  desire  upon  her  lovely  brow 

Raised  by  an  evil  power, 
Doubt,  longing,  dread,  are  in  her  features  now : 

It  is  the  trial-hour. 

How  every  thought  that  strives  within  her  breast 

In  that  one  glance  is  shown ! 
Say!     Can  that  heart  of  marble  be  at  rest, 

Since  spirit  warms  the  stone? 
Will  not  those  limbs  of  so  divine  a  mould 

Move  when  her  thought  is  o'er — 
When  she  has  yielded  to  the  tempter's  hold 

And  Eden  blooms  no  more? 

Art  like  a  phoenix  springs  from  dust  again : 

She  cannot  pass  away  ; 
Bound  down  in  gloom,  she  breaks  apart  the  chain 

And  struggles  up  to  day. 
The  flame  first  kindled  in  the  ages  gone 

Has  never  ceased  to  burn, 
And  westward  now  appears  the  kindling  dawn 

Which  marks  the  day's  return. 

The  "  Greek  Slave  "  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Grant 
of  London,  and  I  only  saw  the  clay  model.  Like  the  Eve, 
it  is  a  form  that  one's  eye  tells  him  is  perfect — unsurpassed; 
but  it  is  the  budding  loveliness  of  a  girl  instead  of  the  per- 
fected beauty  of  a  woman.  In  England  it  has  been  pro- 
nounced superior  to  Canova's  works,  and,  indeed,  I  have 
seen  nothing  of  his  that  could  be  placed  beside  it. 

Powers  has  now  nearly  finished  a  most  exquisite  figure 
of  a  fisher-boy  standing  on  the  shore  with  his  net  and  rud- 
der in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  holds  a  shell  to 
his  ear  and  listens  if  it  murmur  to  him  of  a  gathering 
storm.  His  slight  boyish  limbs  are  full  of  grace  and  deli- 
cacy ;  you  feel  that  the  youthful  frame  could  grow  up  into 


334  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

nothing  less  than  an  Apollo.  Then  the  head !  How  beau- 
tiful !  Slightly  bent  on  one  side,  with  the  rim  of  the  shell 
thrust  under  his  locks,  lips  gently  parted  and  the  face 
wrought  up  to  the  most  hushed  and  breathless  expression, 
he  listens  whether  the  sound  be  deeper  than  its  wont.  It 
makes  you  hold  your  breath  and  listen  to  look  at  it.  Mrs. 
Jameson  somewhere  remarks  that  repose  or  suspended  mo- 
tion should  be  always  chosen  for  a  statue  that  shall  present 
a  perfect,  unbroken  impression  to  the  mind.  If  this  be 
true,  the  enjoyment  must  be  much  more  complete  where  not 
only  the  motion  but  almost  breath  and  thought  are  sus- 
pended and  all  the  faculties  wrought  into  one  hushed  and 
intense  sensation.  In  gazing  on  this  exquisite  conception  I 
feel  my  admiration  filled  to  the  utmost  without  that  pain- 
ful, aching  impression  so  often  left  by  beautiful  works.  It 
glides  into  my  vision  like  a  form  long  missed  from  the  gal- 
lery of  beauty  I  am  forming  in  my  mind,  and  I  gaze  on  it 
with  an  ever-new  and  increasing  delight. 

Now  I  come  to  the  last  and  fairest  of  all— the  divine 
Proserpine.  Not  the  form— for  it  is  but  a  bust  rising  from 
a  capital  of  acanthus-leaves  which  curve  around  the  breast 
and  arms  and  turn  gracefully  outward— but  the  face,  whose 
modest  maiden  beauty  can  find  no  peer  among  goddesses  or 
mortals.  So  looked  she  on  the  field  of  Enna? — that  "  fairer 
flower  "  so  soon  to  be  gathered  by  "  gloomy  Dis."  A  slen- 
der crown  of  green  wheat-blades,  showing  alike  her  descent 
from  Ceres  and  her  virgin  years,  circles  her  head.  Truly, 
if  Pygmalion  stole  his  fire  to  warm  such  a  form  as  this. 
Jove  should  have  pardoned  him. 

Of  Powers's  busts  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  speak.  He 
has  lately  finished  a  very  beautiful  one  of  the  princess 
Demidoff,  daughter  of  Jerome  Bonaparte.  We  will  soon, 
I  hope,  have  the  "  Eve  "  in  America.  Powers  has  gener- 
ously refused  many  advantageous  offers  for  it,  that  he  might 
finally  send  it  home,  and  his  country,  therefore,  will  possess 
this  statue — his  first  ideal  work.     She  may  well  be  prou<7 


VIEW  OF  THE  ALPS.  335 

of  the  genius  and  native  energy  of  her  young  artist,  and 
she  should  repay  them  by  a  just  and  liberal  encouragement. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

AN    ADVENTURE    ON    THE    GREAT    ST.    BERNARD. —WALKS 

AROUND   FLORENCE. 

Nov.  9. 

A  few  days  ago  I  received  a  letter  from  my  cousin  at 
Heidelberg  describing  his  solitary  walk  from  Genoa  over 
the  Alps  and  through  the  western  part  of  Switzerland. 
The  news  of  his  safe  arrival  dissipated  the  anxiety  we  were 
beginning  to  feel  on  account  of  his  long  silence,  while  it 
proved  that  our  fears  concerning  the  danger  of  such  a  jour- 
ney were  not  altogether  groundless.  He  met  with  a  start- 
ling adventure  on  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  which  will  be  best 
described  by  an  extract  from  his  own  letter : 

"  Such  were  my  impressions  of  Rome.  But,  leaving  the 
'  Eternal  City,'  I  must  hasten  on  to  give  you  a  description 
of  an  adventure  I  met  with  in  crossing  the  Alps,  omitting 
for  the  present  an  account  of  the  trip  from  Rome  to  Genoa 
and  my  lonely  walk  through  Sardinia. 

"  When  I  had  crossed  the  mountain-range  north  of 
Genoa,  the  plains  of  Piedmont  stretched  out  before  me. 
I  could  see  the  snowy  sides  and  summits  of  the  Alps,  more 
than  one  hundred  miles  distant,  looking  like  white,  fleecy 
clouds  on  a  summer  day.  It  was  a  magnificent  prospect, 
and  I  wonder  not  that  the  heart  of  the  Swiss  soldier,  after 
years  of  absence  in  foreign  service,  beats  with  joy  when  he 
again  looks  on  his  native  mountains.  As  I  approached 
nearer  the  weather  changed,  and  dark,  gloomy  clouds  en- 
veloped them  ;  so  that  they  seemed  to  present  an  impassable 
barrier  to  the  lands  beyond  them.  At  Ivrea,  I  entered 
the  interesting  valley  of  Aosta.     The  whole  valley— fifty 


336  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

miles  in  length — is  inhabited  by  miserable-looking  people, 
nearly  one-half  of  them  being  afflicted  with  goitre  and 
cretinism.  They  looked  more  idiotic  and  disgusting  than 
any  I  have  ever  seen,  and  it  was  really  painful  to  behold 
such  miserable  specimens  of  humanity  dwelling  amid  the 
grandest  scenes  of  nature.  Immediately  after  arriving  in 
the  town  of  Aosta,  situated  at  the  upper  end  of  the  valley, 
I  began,  alone,  the  ascent  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard.  It 
was  just  noon,  and  the  clouds  on  the  mountains  indicated 
rain.  The  distance  from  Aosta  to  the  monastery  or  hospice 
of  St.  Bernard  is  about  twenty  English  miles. 

"At  one  o'clock  it  commenced  raining  very  hard,  and  to 
gain  shelter  I  went  into  a  rude  hut ;  but  it  was  filled  with 
so  many  of  those  idiotic  cretins,  lying  down  on  the  earthy 
floor  with  the  dogs  and  other  animals,  that  I  was  glad  to 
leave  them  as  soon  as  the  storm  had  abated  in  some  degree. 
I  walked  rapidly  for  three  hours,  when  I  met  a  traveller 
and  his  guide  descending  the  mountain.  I  asked  him  in 
Italian  the  distance  to  the  hospice,  and  he  undertook  to  an- 
swer me  in  French,  but  the  words  did  not  seem  to  flow  very 
fluently ;  so  I  said  quickly,  observing  then  that  he  was  an 
Englishman,  "  Try  some  other  language,  if  you  please,  sir." 
He  replied  instantly  in  his  vernacular :  "  You  have  a  d — d 
long  walk  before  you,  and  you'll  have  to  hurry  to  get  to 
the  top  before  night."  Thanking  him,  we  shook  hands  and 
hurried  on — he  downward,  and  I  upward.  About  eight 
miles  from  the  summit  I  was  directed  into  the  wrong  path 
by  an  ignorant  boy  who  was  tending  sheep,  and  went  a  mile 
out  of  the  course,  toward  Mont  Blanc,  before  I  discovered 
my  mistake.  I  hurried  back  into  the  right  path  again,  and 
soon  overtook  another  boy  ascending  the  mountain,  who 
asked  me  if  he  might  accompany  me,  as  he  was  alone,  to 
which  I,  of  course,  answered  yes ;  but  when  we  began  to 
enter  the  thick  clouds  that  covered  the  mountains,  he  be- 
came alarmed,  and  said  he  would  go  no  farther.  I  tried  to 
encourage  him  by  saying  we  had  only  five   miles  more  to 


ASTRAY  IN  THE  SOLITUDES.  337 

climb,  but,  turning  quickly,  he  ran  down  the  path  and  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

"After  a  long  and  most  toilsome  ascent,  spurred  on  as  I 
was  by  the  storm  and  the  approach  of  night,  I  saw  at  last 
through  the  clouds  a  little  house  which  I  supposed  might 
be  a  part  of  the  monastery,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  only  a 
house  of  refuge  erected  by  the  monks  to  take  in  travellers 
in  extreme  cases  or  extraordinary  danger.  The  man  who 
was  staying  there  told  me  the  monastery  was  a  mile  and  a 
half  farther,  and  thinking,  therefore,  that  I  could  soon 
reach  it,  I  started  out  again,  although  darkness  was  ap- 
proaching. In  a  short  time  the  storm  began  in  good  earn- 
est, and  the  cold  winds  blew  with  the  greatest  fury.  It  grew 
dark  very  suddenly,  and  I  lost  sight  of  the  poles  which  are 
placed  along  the  path  to  guide  the  traveller.  I  then  ran 
on  still  higher,  hoping  to  find  them  again,  but  without  suc- 
cess. The  rain  and  snow  fell  thick,  and,  although  I  think 
I  am  tolerably  courageous,  I  began  to  be  alarmed,  for  it 
was  impossible  to  know  in  what  direction  I  was  going.  I 
could  hear  the  waterfalls  dashing  and  roaring  down  the 
mountain-hollows  on  each  side  of  me  ;  in  the  gloom  the 
foam  and  leaping  waters  resembled  streaming  fires.  I  thought 
of  turning  back  to  find  the  little  house  of  refuge  again,  but 
it  seemed  quite  as  dangerous  and  uncertain  as  to  go  forward. 
After  the  fatigue  I  had  undergone  since  noon,  it  would  have 
been  dangerous  to  be  obliged  to  stay  out  all  night  in  the 
driving  storm,  which  was  every  minute  increasing  in  cold- 
ness and  intensity. 

"  I  stopped  and  shouted  aloud,  hoping  I  might  be  some- 
where near  the  monastery,  but  no  answer  came,  no  noise 
except  the  storm  and  the  roar  of  the  waterfalls.  I  climbed 
up  the  rocks  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  higher,  and  shouted 
again.  I  listened  with  anxiety  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
but,  hearing  no  response,  I  concluded  to  find  a  shelter  for 
the  night  under  a  ledge  of  rocks.  While  looking  around 
me  I  fancied  I  heard  in  the  distance  a  noise  like  the  tramp- 
22 


338  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ling  of  hoofs  over  the  rocks,  and,  thinking  travellers  might 
be  near,  I  called  aloud  for  the  third  time.  After  waiting  a 
moment,  a  voice  came  ringing  on  my  ears  through  the  clouds, 
like  one  from  heaven  in  response  to  my  own.  My  heart 
beat  quickly.  I  hurried  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
sound  came,  and  to  my  joy  found  two  men-servants  of  the 
monastery  who  were  driving  their  mules  into  shelter.  Never 
in  my  whole  life  was  I  more  glad  to  hear  the  voice  of  man. 
These  men  conducted  me  to  the  monastery,  one-fourth  of  a 
mile  higher,  built  by  the  side  of  a  lake  at  the  summit  of 
the  pass,  while  on  each  side  the  mountains,  for  ever  covered 
with  snow,  tower  some  thousands  of  feet  higher. 

"  Two  or  three  of  the  noble  St.  Bernard  dogs  barked  a 
welcome  as  we  approached,  which  brought  a  young  monk 
to  the  door.  I  addressed  him  in  German,  but,  to  my  sur- 
prise, he  answered  in  broken  English.  He  took  me  into  a 
warm  room  and  gave  me  a  suit  of  clothes  such  as  are  worn 
by  the  monks,  for  my  dress,  as  well  as  my  package  of  pa- 
pers, was  completely  saturated  with  rain.  I  sat  down  to 
supper  in  company  with  all  the  monks  of  the  hospice,  I,  in 
my  monkish  robe,  looking  like  one  of  the  holy  order.  You 
would  have  laughed  to  have  seen  me  in  their  costume.  In- 
deed, I  felt  almost  satisfied  to  turn  monk,  as  everything 
seemed  so  comfortable  in  the  warm  supper-room,  with  its 
blazing  wood-fire,  while  outside  raged  the  storm  still  more 
violently.  But  when  I  thought  of  their  voluntary  banish- 
ment from  the  world,  up  in  that  high  pass  of  the  Alps,  and 
that  the  affection  of  woman  never  gladdened  their  hearts,  I 
was  ready  to  renounce  my  monkish  dress  next  morning  with- 
out reluctance. 

"In  the  address-book  of  the  monastery  I  found  Long- 
fellow's '  Excelsior '  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  signed 
'America.'     You  remember  the  stanza, 

'  At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 


THE  TOGGIE  IMPEKIALE.  339 

Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 

Excelsior !' 

It  seemed  to  add  a  tenfold  interest  to  the  poem  to  read  it 
on  old  St.  Bernard.  In  the  morning  I  visited  the  house 
where  are  kept  the  bodies  of  the  travellers  who  perish  in 
crossing  the  mountain.  It  is  filled  with  corpses  ranged  in 
rows  and  looking  like  mummies,  for  the .  cold  is  so  intense 
that  they  will  keep  for  years  without  decaying,  and  are 
often  recognized  and  removed  by  their  friends. 

"  Of  my  descent  to  Martigny,  my  walk  down  the  Rhone 
and  along  the  shores  of  Lake  Leman,  my  visit  to  the 
prison  of  Chillon  and  other  wanderings  across  Switzerland, 
my  pleasure  in  seeing  the  old  river  Rhine  again,  and  my 
return  to  Heidelberg  at  night  with  the  bright  moon  shining 
on  the  Neckar  and  the  old  ruined  castle,  I  can  now  say  no 
more,  nor  is  it  necessary ;  for  are  not  all  these  things  '  writ- 
ten in  my  book  of  Chronicles,'  to  be  seen  by  you  when  we 
meet  again  in  Paris  ? 

"  Ever  yours,  Frank.' 


j> 


Dec.  16. 
I  took  a  walk  lately  to  the  tower  of  Galileo.  In  com- 
pany with  three  friends,  I  left  Florence  by  the  Porta 
Romana,  and  ascended  the  Poggie  Imperiale.  This  beau- 
tiful avenue,  a  mile  and  a  quarter  in  length,  leading  up  a 
gradual  ascent  to  a  villa  of  the  grand  duke,  is  bordered 
with  splendid  cypresses  and  evergreen  oaks,  and  the  grass- 
banks  are  always  fresh  and  green ;  so  that  even  in  winter 
it  calls  up  a  remembrance  of  summer.  In  fact,  Winter 
does  not  wear  the  scowl  here  that  he  has  at  home ;  he  is 
robed  rather  in  a  threadbare  garment  of  autumn,  and  it  is 
only  high  up  on  the  mountain-tops,  out  of  the  reach  of  his 
enemy  the  sun,  that  he  dares  to  throw  it  off  and  bluster 
about  with  his  storms  and  scatter  down  his   snowflakes. 


340  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

The  roses  still  bud  and  bloom  in  the  hedges,  the  emerald 
of  the  meadows  is  not  a  whit  paler,  the  sun  looks  down 
lovingly  as  yet,  and  there  are  only  the  white  helmets  of 
some  of  the  Apennines,  with  the  leafless  mulberries  and 
vines,  to  tell  us  that  we  have  changed  seasons. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk,  part  of  it  by  a  path  through 
an  olive-orchard,  brought  us  to  the  top  of  a  hill  which  was 
surmounted  by  a  square  broken  ivied  tower  forming 
part  of  a  store-house  for  the  produce  of  the  estate.  We 
entered,  saluted  by  a  dog,  and,  passing  through  a  court- 
yard in  which  stood  two  or  three  carts  full  of  brown  olives, 
found  our  way  to  the  rickety  staircase.  I  spared  my  sen- 
timent in  going  up,  thinking  the  steps  might  have  been  re- 
newed since  Galileo's  time,  but  the  glorious  landscape 
which  opened  around  us  when  we  reached  the  top  time 
could  not  change,  and  I  gazed  upon  it  with  interest  and 
emotion  as  my  eye  took  in  those  forms  which  had  once 
been  mirrored  in  the  philosopher's.  Let  me  endeavor  to 
describe  the  features  of  the  scene. 

Fancy  yourself  lifted  to  the  summit  of  a  high  hill  whose 
base  slopes  down  to  the  valley  of  the  Arno  and  looking 
northward.  Behind  you  is  a  confusion  of  hill  and  valley, 
growing  gradually  dimmer  away  to  the  horizon.  Before  and 
below  you  is  a  vale  with  Florence  and  her  great  domes  and 
towers  in  its  lap,  and  across  its  breadth  of  five  miles  the 
mountain  of  Fiesole.  To  the  west  it  stretches  away  un- 
broken for  twenty  miles,  covered  thickly  with  white  villas, 
like  a  meadow  of  daisies  magnified.  A  few  miles  to  the 
east  the  plain  is  rounded  with  mountains  between  whose  in- 
terlocking bases  we  can  see  the  brown  current  of  the  Arno. 
Some  of  their  peaks,  as  well  as  the  mountain  of  Vallom- 
brosa,  along  the  eastern  sky,  are  tipped  with  snow. 
Imagine  the  air  filled  with  a  thick  blue  mist  like  a  semi- 
transparent  veil,  which  softens  everything  into  dreamy  in- 
distinctness, the  sunshine  falling  slantingly  through  this  in 
snots,  touching  the  landscape  here  and  there  as  with  a  sud- 


AN  UNREAL  SCENE.  341 

den  blaze  of  fire,  and  you  will  complete  the  picture.     Does 
it  not  repay  your  mental  flight  across  the  Atlantic? 

One  evening,  on  coming  out  of  the  cafe,  the  moon  was 
shining  so  brightly  and  clearly  that  I  involuntarily  bent  my 
steps  toward  the  river.     I  walked  along  the  Lung'  Arno, 
enjoying  the  heavenly  moonlight — "  the  night  of  cloudless 
climes  and  starry  skies."     A  purer  silver  light  never  kissed 
the  brow  of  Endymion.     The  brown  Arno  took  into  his 
breast  "  the  redundant  glory,"  and  rolled  down  his  pebbly 
bed  with  a  more  musical  ripple.     Opposite  stretched  the 
long  mass  of  buildings ;  the  deep  arches  that  rose  from  the 
water  were  filled  with  black  shadow  and  the  irregular  fronts 
of  the  houses  touched  with  a  mellow  glow.     The  arches  of 
the  upper  bridge  were  in  shadow,  cutting  their 'dark  out- 
line  on   the   silvery  sweep  of  the  Apennines,  far  up  the 
stream.     A  veil  of  luminous  gray  covered  the  hill  of  San 
Miniato,  with  its  towers  and  cypress  groves,  and  there  was 
a  crystal  depth  in  the  atmosphere,  as  if  it  shone  with  its 
own  light.     The  Avhole  scene  affected  me  as  something  too 
glorious  to  be  real — painful  from  the  very  intensity  of  its 
beauty.     Three  moons  ago,  at  the  foot  of  Vallombrosa,  I 
saw  the  Apennines  flooded  with  the  same  silvery  gush,  and 
thought  also  then  that  I  had  seen  the  same  moon  amid  far 
dearer  scenes,  but  never  before  the  same  dreamy  and  sub- 
lime glory  showered  down  from  her  pale  orb.  Some  solitary 
lights  were  burning  along  the  river,  and  occasionally  a  few 
Italians  passed  by  wrapped  in  their  mantles.     I  went  home 
to  the  Piazza  del  Granduca  as  the  light  pouring  into  the 
square  from  behind  the  old  palace  fell  over  the  fountain  of 
Neptune  and  sheathed  in  silver  the  back  of  the  colossal 
god. 

Whoever  looks  on  the  valley  of  the  Arno  from  San  Min- 
iato and  observes  the  Apennine  range — of  which  Fiesole 
is  one — bounding  it  on  the  north,  will  immediately  notice 
to  the  north-west  a  double  peak  rising  high  above  all  the 
others.     The  bare  brown  forehead  of  this — known  by  the 


342  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

name  of  Monte  Morello — seemed  so  provokingly  to  chal- 
lenge an  ascent  that  we  determined  to  try  it.  So  we  started 
early  the  day  before  yesterday  from  the  Porta  San  Gallo, 
with  nothing  but  the  frosty  grass  and  fresh  air  to  remind 
us  of  the  middle  of  December.  Leaving  the  Prato  road,  at 
the  base  of  the  mountain,  we  passed  Carreggi,  a  favorite 
farm  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  entered  a  narrow  glen 
where  a  little  brook  was  brawling  down  its  rocky  channel. 
Here  and  there  stood  a  rustic  mill  near  which  women  were 
busy  spreading  their  washed  clothes  on  the  grass.  Follow- 
ing the  footpath,  we  ascended  a  long  eminence  to  a  chapel 
where  some  boys  were  amusing  themselves  with  a  common 
country  game.  They  have  a  small  wheel,  around  which 
they  wind  a  rope,  and,  running  a  little  distance  to  increase 
the  velocity,  let  it  off  with  a  sudden  jerk.  On  a  level  road 
it  can  be  thrown  upward  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

From  the  chapel  a  gradual  ascent  along  the  ridge  of  a 
hill  brought  us  to  the  foot  of  the  peak,  which  rose  high  be- 
fore us,  covered  with  bare  rocks  and  stunted  oaks.  The 
wind  blew  coldly  from  a  snowy  range  to  the  north  as  we 
commenced  ascending  with  a  good  will.  A  few  shepherds 
were  leading  their  flocks  along  the  sides  to  browse  on  the 
grass  and  withered  bushes,  and  we  started  up  a  large  hare 
occasionally  from  his  leafy  covert.  The  ascent  was  very 
toilsome ;  I  was  obliged  to  stop  frequently  on  account  of 
the  painful  throbbing  of  my  heart  which  made  it  difficult  to 
breathe.  When  the  summit  was  gained,  we  lay  down  a 
while  on  the  leeward  side  to  recover  ourselves. 

We  looked  on  the  great  valley  of  the  Arno,  perhaps 
twenty-five  miles  long  and  five  or  six  broad,  lying  like  a 
long  elliptical  basin  sunk  among  the  hills.  I  can  liken  it 
to  nothing  but  a  vast  sea,  for  a  dense  blue  mist  covered  the 
level  surface,  through  which  the  domes  of  Florence  rose  up 
like  a  craggy  island,  while  the  thousands  of  scattered  villas 
resembled  ships  with  spread  sails  afloat  on  its  surface.  The 
sharp,  cutting  wind  soon  drove  us  down  with  a  few  hundred 


PAINFUL  EMOTIONS.  343 

bounds  to  the  path  again.     Three  more  hungry  mortals  did 
not  dine  at  the  cacciatore  that  day. 

The  chapel  of  the  Medici,  which  we  visited,  is  of  wonder- 
ful beauty.  The  walls  are  entirely  encrusted  with  pietra 
dura  and  the  most  precious  kinds  of  marble.  The  ceiling 
is  covered  with  gorgeous  frescos  by  Benevenuto,  a  modern 
painter.  Around  the  sides,  in  magnificent  sarcophagi  of 
marble  and  jasper,  repose  the  ashes  of  a  few  Cosmos  and 
Ferdinands.  I  asked  the  sacristan  for  the  tomb  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent.  "  Ob  !"  said  he,  "  he  lived  during  the  re- 
public. He  has  no  tomb ;  these  are  only  for  dukes."  I 
could  not  repress  a  sigh  at  the  lavish  waste  of  labor  and 
treasure  on  this  one  princely  chapel.  They  might  have 
slumbered  unnoted,  like  Lorenzo,  if  they  had  done  as  much 

for  their  country  and  Italy. 

Dec.  19. 

It  is  with  a  heavy  heart  that  I  sit  down  to-night  to  make 
my  closing  note  in  this  lovely  city,  and  in  the  journal  which 
has  recorded  my  thoughts  and  impressions  since  leaving 
America.  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  analyze  my  emotions, 
but  I  know  that  they  oppress  me  painfully.  So  much 
rushes  at  once  over  the  mind  and  heart — memories  of  what 
has  passed  through  both  since  I  made  the  first  note  in  its 
pages,  alternations  of  hope  and  anxiety  and  aspiration,  but 
never  despondency — that  it  resembles,  in  a  manner,  the 
closing  of  a  life.  I  seem  almost  to  have  lived  through  the 
common  term  of  a  life  in  this  short  period.  Much  spiritual 
and  mental  experience  has  crowded  into  a  short  time  the 
sensations  of  years.  Painful  though  some  of  it  has  been,  it 
was  still  welcome.  Difficulty  and  toil  give  the  soul  strength 
to  crush  in  a  loftier  region  the  passions  which  draw  strength 
only  from  the  earth.  So  long  as  we  listen  to  the  purer  prompt- 
ings within  us  there  is  a  Power  invisible,  though  not  unfelt, 
who  protects  us ;  amid  the  toil  and  tumult  and  soiling  strug- 
gle there  is  ever  an  eye  that  watches,  ever  a  heart  that 
overflows  with  infinite  and  almighty  love.     Let  us  trust, 


344  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

then,  in  that  eternal  Spirit  who  pours  out  on  us  his  warm 
and  boundless  blessings  through  the  channels  of  so  many 
kindred  human  hearts. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

WINTER-TRAVELLING   AMONG   THE   APENNINES. 

Valley  of  the  Arno,  Dec.  22. 

It  is  a  glorious  morning  after  our  two  days'  walk  through 
rain  and  mud  among  these  stormy  Apennines.  The  range 
of  high  peaks  among  which  is  the  celebrated  monastery  of 
Camaldoli  lie  just  before  us,  their  summits  dazzling  with 
the  new-fallen  snow.  The  clouds  are  breaking  away,  and 
a  few  rosy  flushes  announce  the  approach  of  the  sun.  It 
has  rained  during  the  night,  and  the  fields  are  as  green  and 
fresh  as  on  a  morning  in  spring. 

We  left  Florence  on  the  20th  while  citizens  and  strangers 
were  vainly  striving  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  emperor  of 
Russia.  He  is,  from  some  cause,  very  shy  of  being  seen  in 
his  journeys  from  place  to  place,  using  the  greatest  art  and 
diligence  to  prevent  the  time  of  his  departure  and  arrival 
from  being  known.  On  taking  leave  of  Powers,  I  found 
him  expecting  the  autocrat,  as  he  had  signified  his  intention 
of  visiting  his  studio ;  it  was  a  cause  of  patriotic  pride  to 
find  that  crowned  heads  know  and  appreciate  the  genius  of 
our  sculptor. 

The  sky  did  not  promise  much  as  we  set  out ;  when  we 
had  entered  the  Apennines  and  taken  a  last  look  of  the 
lovely  valley  behind  us  and  the  great  dome  of  the  city 
where  we  had  spent  four  delightful  months,  it  began  to  rain 
heavily.  Determined  to  conquer  the  weather  at  the  begin- 
ning, we  kept  on,  although  before  many  miles  were  passed 
it  became  too  penetrating  to  be  agreeable.     The  mountains 


OBJECTS  OF  CURIOSITY.  345 

grew  nearly  black  under  the  shadow  of  the  clouds,  and  the 
storms  swept  drearily  down  their  passes  and  defiles,  till  the 
scenery  looked  more  like  the  Hartz  than  Italy.  We  were 
obliged  to  stop  at  Ponte  Sieve  and  dry  our  saturated  gar- 
ments, when,  as  the  rain  slackened  somewhat,  we  rounded 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  of  Vallombrosa,  above  the  swollen 
and  noisy  Arno,  to  the  little  village  of  Cucina. 

We  entered  the  only  inn  in  the  place  followed  by  a  crowd 
of  wondering  boys,  for  two  such  travellers  had  probably 
never  been  seen  there.  They  made  a  blazing  fire  for  us  in 
the  broad  chimney,  and  after  the  police  of  the  place  satis- 
fied themselves  that  we  were  not  dangerous  characters  they 
asked  many  questions  about  our  country.  I  excited  the 
sympathy  of  the  women  greatly  in  our  behalf  by  telling 
them  we  had  three  thousand  miles  of  sea  between  us  and 
our  homes.  They  exclaimed  in  the  most  sympathizing 
tones,  "Poverini !  so  far  to  go !  Three  thousand  miles  of 
water !" 

The  next  morning  we  followed  the  right  bank  of  the  Arno. 
At  Incisa,  a  large  town  on  the  river,  the  narrow  pass  broad- 
ens into  a  large  and  fertile  plain  bordered  on  the  north  by 
the  mountains.  The  snow-storms  were  sweeping  around 
their  summits  the  whole  day,  and  I  thought  of  the  desolate 
situation  of  the  good  monks  who  had  so  hospitably  enter- 
tained us  three  months  before.  It  was  weary  travelling, 
but  at  Levane  our  fatigues  were  soon  forgotten.  Two  or 
three  peasants  were  sitting  last  night  beside  the  blazing  fire, 
and  we  were  amused  to  hear  them  talking  about  us.  I  over- 
heard one  asking  another  to  converse  with  us  a  while. 
"  Why  should  I  speak  to  them  ?"  said  he.  "  They  are  not 
of  our  profession.  We  are  swineherds,  and  they  do  not  care 
to  talk  with  us."  However,  his  curiosity  prevailed  at  last, 
and  we  had  a  long  conversation  together.  It  seemed  diffi- 
cult for  them  to  comprehend  how  there  could  be  so  much 
water  to  cross,  without  any  land,  before  reaching  our  coun- 
try.    Finding  we  were  going  to  Rome,  I  overheard  one  re- 


346  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

mark  we  were  pilgrims,  which  seemed  to  be  the  general  sup- 
position, as  there  are  few  foot-travellers  in  Italy.  The  peo- 
ple said  to  one  another  as  we  passed  along  the  road,  "  They 
are  making  a  journey  of  penance."  These  peasants  ex- 
pressed themselves  very  well  for  persons  of  their  station, 
but  they  were  remarkably  ignorant  of  everything  beyond 
their  own  olive-orchards  and  vine-fields. 

Perugia,  Dec.  24. 
On  leaving  Levane  the  morning  gave  a  promise  and  the 
sun  winked  at  us  once  or  twice  through  the  broken  clouds 
with  a  watery  eye,  but  our  cup  was  not  yet  full.  After  cross- 
ing one  or  two  shoulders  of  the  range  of  hills,  we  descended 
to  the  great  upland  plain  of  Central  Italy,  watered  by  the 
sources  of  the  Arno  and  the  Tiber.  The  scenery  is  of  a 
remarkable  character.  The  hills  appear  to  have  been 
washed  and  swept  by  some  mighty  flood.  They  are  worn 
into  every  shape — pyramids,  castles,  towers — standing  deso- 
late and  brown  in  long  ranges,  like  the  ruins  of  mountains. 
The  plain  is  scarred  with  deep  gullies,  adding  to  the  look  of 
decay  which  accords  so  well  with  the  Cyclopean  relics  of 
the  country. 

A  storm  of  hail  which  rolled  away  before  us  disclosed  the 
city  of  Arezzo  on  a  hill  at  the  other  end  of  the  plain,  its 
heavy  cathedral  crowning  the  pyramidal  mass  of  buildings. 
Our  first  care  was  to  find  a  good  trattoria,  for  hunger  spoke 
louder  than  sentiment,  and  then  we  sought  the  house  where 
Petrarch  was  born.  A  young  priest  showed  it  to  us,  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill.  It  has  not  been  changed  since  he  lived 
in  it. 

On  leaving  Florence  we  determined  to  pursue  the  same 
plan  as  in  Germany,  of  stopping  at  the  inns  frequented  by 
the  common  people.  They  treated  us  here,  as  elsewhere, 
with  great  kindness  and  sympathy,  and  we  were  freed  from 
the  outrageous  impositions  practised  at  the  greater  hotels. 
They  always  built  a  large  fire  to  dry  us  after  our  day's  walk 


AT  CORTONA.  347 

in  the  rain,  and,  placing  chairs  in  the  hearth,  which  was 
raised  several  feet  above  the  floor,  stationed  ns  there,  like  the 
giants  Gog  and  Magog,  while  the  children,  assembled  below, 
gazed  up  in  open-mouthed  wonder  at  our  elevated  greatness. 
They  even  invited  us  to  share  their  simple  meals  with  them, 
and  it  was  amusing  to  hear  their  good-hearted  exclamations 
of  pity  at  finding  we  were  so  far  from  home.  We  slept  in 
the  great  beds  (for  the  most  of  the  Italian  beds  are  calcu- 
lated for  a  man,  wife  and  four  children)  without  fear  of  be- 
ing assassinated,  and  only  met  with  banditti  in  dreams. 

This  is  a  very  unfavorable  time  of  the  year  for  foot-trav- 
elling. We  were  obliged  to  wait  three  or  four  weeks  in 
Florence  for  a  remittance  from  America,  which  not  only 
prevented  our  leaving  as  soon  as  was  desirable,  but  by  the 
additional  expense  of  living  left  us  much  smaller  means 
than  we  required.  However,  through  the  kindness  of 
a  generous  countrymau  who  unhesitatingly  loaned  us  a 
considerable  sum,  we  were  enabled  to  start  with  thirty  dol- 
lars each,  which  with  care  and  economy  will  be  quite  suffi- 
cient to  take  us  to  Paris  by  way  of  Rome  and  Naples,  if 
these  storms  do  not  prevent  us  from  walking.  Greece  and 
the  Orient,  which  I  so  ardently  hoped  to  visit,  are  now  out 
of  the  question.  We  walked  till  noon  to-day  over  the  Val 
di  Chiana  to  Camuscia,  the  last  post-station  in  the  Tuscan 
dominions.  On  a  mountain  near  it  is  the  city  of  Cortona, 
still  enclosed  within  its  cyclopean  walls,  built  long  before 
the  foundation  of  Rome.  Here  our  patience  gave  way, 
melted  down  by  the  unremitting  rains,  and  while  eating 
dinner  we  made  a  bargain  for  a  vehicle  to  bring  us  to  this 
city.  We  gave  a  little  more  than  half  of  what  the  vetturino 
demanded,  which  was  still  an  exorbitant  price — two  scudi 
each  for  a  ride  of  thirty  miles. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  called  to  take  our  scats.  I  be- 
held with  consternation  a  rickety,  uncovered,  two-wheeled 
vehicle  to  which  a  single  lean  horse  was  attached.  "What !" 
said  I ;  "is  that  the  carriage  you  promised  ?" — "  You  bar- 


348  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

gained  for  a  calesino,"  said  lie,  "and  there  it  is,"  adding 
moreover,  that  there  was  nothing  else"  in  the  place.  So  we 
clambered  up,  thrust  our  feet  among  the  hay,  and  the  ma- 
chine rolled  off  with  a  kind  of  saw-mill  motion  at  the  rate 
of  five  miles  an  hour. 

Soon  after,  in  ascending  the  mountain  of  the  Spelunca, 
a  sheet  of  blue  water  was  revealed  below  us — the  Lake  of 
Thrasymene.  From  the  eminence  around  which  we  drove 
we  looked  on  the  whole  of  its  broad  surface  and  the  moun- 
tains which  encompass  it.  It  is  a  magnificent  sheet  of 
water,  in  size  and  shape  somewhat  like  New  York  Bay,  but 
the  heights  around  it  are  far  higher  than  the  hills  of  Jersey 
or  Staten  Island.  Three  beautiful  islands  lie  in  it,  near  the 
eastern  shore. 

While  our  calesino  was  stopped  at  the  papal  custom- 
house, I  gazed  on  the  memorable  field  below  us.  A  cres- 
cent plain  between  the  mountain  and  the  lake  was  the  arena 
where  two  mighty  empires  met  in  combat.  The  place  seems 
marked  by  nature  for  the  scene  of  some  great  event.  I  ex- 
perienced a  thrilling  emotion  such  as  no  battle-plain  has 
excited  since,  when  a  schoolboy,  I  rambled  over  the  field 
of  Brandywine.  I  looked  through  the  long  arcades  of  pa- 
triarchal olives,  and  tried  to  cover  the  field  with  the  shad- 
ows of  the  Roman  and  Carthaginian  myriads.  I  recalled 
the  shock  of  meeting  legions,  the  clash  of  swords  and  buck- 
lers and  the  waving  standards  amid  the  dust  of  battle, 
while  stood  on  the  mountain-amphitheatre,  trembling  and 
invisible,  the  protecting  deities  of  Rome. 

"  Far  other  scene  is  Thrasymene  now  !" 

We  rode  over  the  plain,  passed  through  the  dark  old 
town  of  Passignano,  built  on  a  rocky  point  by  the  lake,  and 
dashed  along  the  shore.  A  dark,  stormy  sky  bent  over  us, 
and  the  roused  waves  broke  in  foam  on  the  rocks.  The 
winds  whistled  among  the  bare  oak-boughs  and  shook  the 


NOCTURNAL  TRAVELLING.  349 

olives  till  they  twinkled  all  over.  The  vetturino  whipped 
our  old  horse  into  a  gallop,  and  we  were  borne  on  in  unison 
with  the  scene,  which  would  have  answered  for  one  of  Hoff- 
man's wildest  stories. 

Ascending  a  long  hill,  we  took  a  last  look  in  the  dusk  at 
Thrasymene,  and  continued  our  journey  among  the  Apen- 
nines. The  vetturino  was  to  have  changed  horses  at  Mag- 
ione,  thirteen  miles  from  Perugia,  but  there  were  none  to 
be  had,  and  our  poor  beast  was  obliged  to  perform  the 
whole  journey  without  rest  or  food.  It  grew  very  dark, 
and  a  storm,  with  thunder  and  lightning,  swept  among  the 
hills.  The  clouds  were  of  pitchy  darkness,  and  we  could 
see  nothing  beyond  the  road  except  the  lights  of  peasant- 
cottages  trembling  through  the  gloom.  Now  and  then  a 
flash  of  lightning  revealed  the  black  masses  of  the  moun- 
tains, on  which  the  solid  sky  seemed  to  rest.  The  wind  and 
cold  rain  swept  wailing  past  us,  as  if  an  evil  spirit  were 
abroad  on  the  darkness.  Three  hours  of  such  nocturnal 
travel  brought  us  here,  wet  and  chilly,  as  well  as  our  driver, 
but  I  pitied  the  poor  horse  more  than  him. 

When  we  looked  out  the  window  on  awaking,  the  clus- 
tered housetops  of  the  city  and  the  summits  of  the  moun- 
tains near  were  covered  with  snow.  But  on  walking  to  the 
battlements  we  saw  that  the  valleys  below  were  green  and 
untouched.  Perugia  for  its  "  pride  of  place  "  must  endure 
the  storms,  while  the  humbler  villages  below  escape  them. 
As  the  rain  continues,  we  have  taken  seats  in  a  country  dil- 
igence for  Foligno,  and  shall  depart  in  a  few  minutes. 

December  28. 
We  left  Perugia  in  a  close  but  covered  vehicle,  and,  de- 
scending the  mountain,  crossed  the  muddy  and  rapid  Tiber 
in  the  valley  below.  All  day  we  rode  slowly  among  the 
hills ;  where  the  ascent  was  steep  two  or  four  large  oxen 
were  hitched  before  the  horses.  I  saw  little  of  the  scenery, 
for  our  Italian  companions  would  not  bear  the  windows 


350  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

open.  Once,  when  we  stopped,  I  got  out,  and  found  we 
were  in  the  region  of  snow  at  the  foot  of  a  stormy  peak 
which  towered  sublimely  above.  At  dusk  we  entered  Fo- 
ligno  and  were  driven  to  the  Croce  Bianca,  glad  to  be  thirty 
miles  farther  on  our  way  to  Rome. 

After  some  discussion  with  a  vetturino  who  was  to  leave 
next  morning,  we  made  a  contract  with  him  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  journey,  for  the  rain,  which  fell  in  torrents, 
forbade  all  thought  of  pedestrianism.  At  five  o'clock  we 
rattled  out  of  the  gate,  and  drove  by  the  waning  moon  and 
morning  starlight  down  the  vale  of  the  Clitumnus.  As  the 
dawn  stole  on  I  watched  eagerly  the  features  of  the  scene. 
Instead  of  a  narrow  glen,  as  my  fancy  had  pictured,  we 
were  in  a  valley  several  miles  broad  covered  with  rich 
orchards  and  fertile  fields.  A  glorious  range  of  mountains 
bordered  it  on  the  north,  looking  like  Alps  in  their  winter 
garments.  A  rosy  flush  stole  over  the  snow,  which  kindled 
with  the  growing  morn,  till  they  shone  like  clouds  that  float 
in  the  sunrise.  The  Clitumnus,  beside  us,  was  the  purest 
of  streams.  The  heavy  rains  which  had  fallen  had  not 
soiled  in  the  least  its  limpid  crystal. 

When  it  grew  light  enough,  I  looked  at  our  companions 
for  the  three  days'  journey.  The  two  other  inside  seats 
were  occupied  by  a  tradesman  of  Trieste,  with  his  wife  and 
child  ;  an  old  soldier,  and  a  young  dragoon  going  to  visit 
his  parents  after  seven  years'  absence,  occupied  the  front 
part.  Persons  travelling  together  in  a  carriage  are  not 
long  in  becoming  acquainted :  close  companionship  soon 
breeds  familiarity.  Before  night  I  had  made  a  fast  friend 
of  the  young  soldier,  learned  to  bear  the  perverse  humor 
of  the  child  with  as  much  patience  as  its  father,  and  even 
drawn  looks  of  grim  kindness  from  the  crusty  old  vetturino. 

Our  midday  resting-place  was  Spoleto.  As  there  were 
two  hours  given  us,  we  took  a  ramble  through  the  city,  vis- 
ited the  ruins  of  its  Roman  theatre  and  saw  the  gate 
erected  to  commemorate  the  victory  gained  here  over  Han- 


ROBBERS'   DENS.  351 

nibal  which  stopped  his  triumphal  march  toward  Rome. 
A  great  part  of  the  afternoon  was  spent  in  ascending 
among  the  defiles  of  Monte  Somma,  the  highest  pass  on  the 
road  between  Ancona  and  Rome.  Assisted  by  two  yoke  of 
oxen,  we  slowly  toiled  up  through  the  snow,  the  mountains 
on  both  sides  covered  with  thickets  of  box  and  evergreen 
oaks  among  whose  leafy  screens  the  banditti  hide  them- 
selves. It  is  not  considered  dangerous  at  present,  but,  as 
the  dragoons  who  used  to  patrol  this  pass  have  been  sent 
off'  to  Bologna  to  keep  down  the  rebellion,  the  robbers  will 
probably  return  to  their  old  haunts  again.  We  saw  many 
suspicious-looking  coverts  where  they  might  have  hidden. 

We  slept  at  Terni,  and  did  not  see  the  falls — not  exactly 
on  Wordsworth's  principle  of  leaving  Yarrow  "  unvisited," 
but  because,  under  the  circumstances,  it  wTas  impossible. 
The  vetturino  did  not  arrive  there  till  after  dark  ;  he  wTas 
to  leave  before  dawn  ;  the  distance  was  five  miles  and  the 
roads  very  bad.  Besides,  we  had  seen  falls  quite  as  grand 
which  needed  only  a  Byron  to  make  them  as  renowrned ; 
we  had  been  told  that  those  of  Tivoli,  which  we  shall  see, 
were  equally  fine  ;  the  Velino,  which  we  crossed  near  Terni, 
was  not  a  large  stream ;  in  short,  we  hunted  as  many  rea- 
sons as  we  could  find  why  the  falls  need  not  be  seen. 

Leaving  Terni  before  day,  we  drove  up  the  long  vale 
toward  Narni.  The  roads  were  frozen  hard  ;  the  ascent 
becoming  more  difficult,  the  vetturino  was  obliged  to  stop 
at  a  farmhouse  and  get  another  pair  of  horses,  with  which, 
and  a  handsome  young  contadino  as  postilion,  we  reached 
Narni  in  a  short  time.  In  climbing  the  hill  we  had  a  view 
of  the  whole  valley  of  Terni,  shut  in  on  all  sides  by  snow- 
crested  Apennines  and  threaded  by  the  Nar,  whose  waters 
flow,  "  with  many  windings,  through  the  vale  !" 

At  Otricoli,  while  dinner  was  preparing,  I  walked  around 
the  crumbling  battlements  to  look  down  into  the  valley  and 
trace  the  far  windings  of  the  Tiber.  In  rambling  through 
the  crooked  streets  we  saw  everywhere  the  remains  of  the 


352  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

splendor  which  this  place  boasted  in  the  days  of  Rome. 
Fragments  of  fluted  pillars  stood  here  and  there  in  the 
streets ;  large  blocks  of  marble  covered  with  sculpture  and 
inscriptions  were  built  into  the  houses,  defaced  statues  used 
as  door-ornaments,  and*  the  stepping-stone  to  our  rude  inn, 
worn  every  day  by  the  feet  of  grooms  and  vetturini,  con- 
tained some  letters  of  an  inscription  which  may  have  re- 
corded the  glory  of  an  emperor. 

Travelling  with  a  vetturino  is  unquestionably  the  pleas- 
antest  way  of  seeing  Italy.  The  easy  rate  of  the  journey 
allows  time  for  becoming  well  acquainted  with  the  country, 
and  the  tourist  is  freed  from  the  annoyance  of  quarrelling 
with  cheating  landlords.  A  translation  of  our  written  con- 
tract will  best  explain  this  mode  of  travelling : 

"  Carriage  for  Rome. 

"  Our  contract  is  to  be  conducted  to  Rome  for  the  sum  of 
twenty  francs  each,  say  20f.  and  the  buona  mano,  if  we  are 
well  served.  We  must  have  from  the  vetturino  Giuseppe 
Nerpiti  supper  each  night,  a  free  chamber  with  two  beds 
and  fire  until  we  shall  arrive  at  Rome. 

"  I,  Geronymo  Sartarelli,  steward  of  the  inn  of  the  White 
Cross,  at  Foligno,  in  testimony  of  the  above  contract." 

Beyond  Otricoli  we  passed  through  some  relics  of  an  age 
anterior  to  Rome.  A  few  soiled  masses  of  masonry  black 
with  age  stood  along  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  on  whose 
extremity  were  the  ruins  of  a  castle  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
We  crossed  the  Tiber  on  a  bridge  built  by  Augustus  Csesar, 
and  reached  Borghetto  as  the  sun  was  gilding  with  its  last 
rays  the  ruined  citadel  above.  As  the  carriage  with  its 
four  horses  was  toiling  slowly  up  the  hill  we  got  out  and 
walked  before,  to  gaze  on  the  green  meadows  of  the  Tiber. 

On  descending  from  Narni,  I  noticed  a  high,  prominent 
mountain  whose  ridgy  back,  somewhat  like  the  profile  of  a 
face,  reminded  me  of  the  Traunstein,  in  Upper  Austria. 


THE  ROMAN   CAMPAGNA  353 

As  we  approached,  its  form  gradually  changed,  until  it 
stood  on  the  Campagna 

"  Like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
That  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing/' 

and  by  that  token  of  a  great  bard  I  recognized  Monte  So- 
racte.  The  dragoon  took  us  by  the  arms,  and  away  we 
scampered  over  the  Campagna,  with  one  of  the  loveliest 
sunsets  before  us  that  ever  painted  itself  on  my  retina.  I 
cannot  portray  in  words  the  glory  that  flooded  the  whole 
western  heaven.  It  was  like  a  sea  of  melted  ruby,  amethyst, 
and  topaz,  deep,  dazzling  and  of  crystal  transparency.  The 
color  changed  in  tone  every  few  minutes,  till  in  half  an 
hour  it  sank  away  before  the  twilight  to  a  belt  of  deep 
orange  along  the  west. 

We  left  Civita  Castellana  before  daylight.  The  sky  was 
red  with  dawn  as  we  approached  Nepi,  and  we  got  out  to 
walk  in  the  clear,  frosty  air.  A  magnificent  Roman  aque- 
duct, part  of  it  a  double  row  of  arches,  still  supplies  the 
town  with  water.  There  is  a  deep  ravine,  appearing  as  if 
rent  in  the  ground  by  some  convulsion,  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  city.  A  clear  stream  that  steals  through  the  arches 
of  the  aqueduct  falls  in  a  cascade  of  sixty  feet  down  into 
the  chasm,  sending  up  constant  wreaths  of  spray  through 
the  evergreen  foliage  that  clothes  the  rocks.  In  walking 
over  the  desolate  Campagna  we  saw  many  deep  chambers 
dug  in  the  earth,  used  by  the  charcoal-burners ;  the  air  was 
filled  with  sulphurous  exhalations  very  offensive  to  the 
smell,  which  rose  from  the  ground  in  many  places. 

Miles  and  miles  of  the  dreary  waste  covered  only  with 
flocks  of  grazing  sheep  were  passed,  and  about  noon  we 
reached  Baccano,  a  small  post-station  twenty  miles  from 
Rome.  A  long  hill  rose  before  us,  and  we  sprang  out  of 
the  carriage  and  ran  ahead  to  see  Rome  from  its  summit. 
As  we  approached  the  top  the  Campagna  spread  far  before 
and  around  us,  level  and  blue  as  an  ocean.  I  climbed  up 
23 


354  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

a  high  bank  by  the  roadside,  and  the  whole  scene  came  in 
view.  Perhaps  eighteen  miles  distant  rose  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's,  near  the  horizon,  a  small  spot  on  the  vast  plain. 
Beyond  it,  and  farther  east,  were  the  mountains  of  Albano, 
on  our  left  Soracte  and  the  Apennines,  and  a  blue  line  along 
the  west  betrayed  the  Mediterranean.  There  was  nothing 
peculiarly  beautiful  or  sublime  in  the  landscape,  but  few 
other  scenes  on  earth  combine  in  one  glance  such  a  myriad  of 
mighty  associations  or  bewilder  the  mind  with  such  a  crowd 
of  confused  emotions. 

As  we  approached  Rome  the  dragoon  with  whom  we  had 
been  walking  all  day  became  anxious  and  impatient.  He 
had  not  heard  from  his  parents  for  a  long  time,  and  knew 
not  if  they  were  living.  His  desire  to  be  at  the  end  of  his 
journey  finally  became  so  great  that  he  hailed  a  peasant 
who  was  driving  by  in  a  light  vehicle,  left  our  slow  carriage 
and  went  out  of  sight  in  a  gallop. 

As  we  descended  to  the  Tiber  in  the  dusk  of  evening  the 
domes  and  spires  of  Rome  came  gradually  into  view,  St. 
Peter's  standing  like  a  mountain   in   the  midst  of  them. 
Crossing  the  yellow  river  by  the  Ponte  Molle,  two  miles  of 
road  straight  as  an  arrow  lay  before  us,  with  the  light  of 
the  Porta  del  Popolo  at  the  end.     I  felt  strangely  excited 
as  the  old  vehicle  rumbled  through  the  arch  and  we  entered 
a  square  with  fountains  and  an  obelisk  of  Egyptian  granite 
in  the  centre.     Delivering  up  our  passports,  we  waited  until 
the  necessary  examinations  were  made,  and  then  went  for- 
ward.    Three  streets  branch  out  from  the  square,  the  mid- 
dle one  of  which,  leading  directly  to   the  Capitol,  is   the 
Corso — the  Roman  Broadway.     Our  vetturino  chose  that  to 
the  left,  the  Via  della  Scrofa,  leading  off  toward  the  bridge 
of  St.  Angelo.     I  looked  out  the  windows  as  we  drove  along, 
but  saw  nothing  except  butcher-shops,  grocer-stores,  etc. — 
horrible  objects  for  a  sentimental  traveller. 

Being  emptied  out  on  the  pavement  at  last,  our  first  care 
was  to  find  rooms.     After  searching  through  many  streets 


ROME.  355 

with  a  coarse  old  Italian  who  spoke  like  an  angel,  we  ar- 
rived at  a  square  where  the  music  of  a  fountain  was  heard 
through  the  dusk  and  an  obelisk  cut  out  some  of  the 
starlight.  At  the  other  end  I  saw  a  portico  through  the 
darkness,  and  my  heart  gave  a  breathless  bound  on  recog- 
nizing the  Pantheon,  the  matchless  temple  of  ancient  Rome. 
And  now,  while  I  am  writing,  I  hear  the  gush  of  the 
fountain  ;  and  if  I  step  to  the  window,  I  see  the  time-worn 
but  still  glorious  edifice. 

On  returning  for  our  baggage  we  met  the  funeral  proces- 
sion of  the  princess  Altieri.  Priests  in  white  and  gold  carried 
flaming  torches,  and  the  coffin,  covered  with  a  magnificent 
golden  pall,  was  borne  in  a  splendid  hearse  guarded  by  four 
priests.  As  we  were  settling  our  account  with  the  vetturino, 
who  demanded  much  more  buona  memo  than  we  were  willing 
to  give,  the  young  dragoon  returned.  He  was  greatly 
agitated.  "  I  have  been  at  home,"  said  he,  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  emotion.  I  was  about  to  ask  him  further 
concerning  his  family,  but  he  kissed  and  embraced  us 
warmly  and  hurriedly,  saying  he  had  only  come  to  say 
"Addio  "  and  to  leave  us. 

I  stop  writing  to  ramble  through  Rome.  This  city  of  all 
cities  to  me — this  dream  of  my  boyhood,  giant,  god-like, 
fallen  Rome — is  around  me,  and  I  revel  in  a  glow  of  antici- 
pation and  exciting  thought  that  seems  to  change  my  whole 
state  of  being. 


CHAPTER    XL 

ROME. 


Dec.  29. 
One  day's  walk  through  Rome !     How  shall  I  describe 
it  ?     The  Capitol,  the  Forum,  St.  Peter's,  the  Coliseum — 
what  few  hours'  ramble  ever  took  in  places  so  hallowed  by 


356  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

poetry,  history  and  art  ?  It  was  a  golden  leaf  in  my  cal- 
endar of  life.  In  thinking  over  it  now,  and  drawing  out 
the  threads  of  recollection  from  the  varied  woof  of  thought 
I  have  woven  to-day,  I  almost  wonder  how  I  dared  so  much 
at  once ;  but,  within  reach  of  them  all,  how  was  it  possible 
to  wait  ?     Let  me  give  a  sketch  of  our  day's  ramble. 

Hearing  that  it  was  better  to  visit  the  ruins  by  evening 
or  moonlight  (alas !  there  is  no  moon  now),  we  started  out 
to  hunt  St.  Peter's.  Going  in  the  direction  of  the  Corso, 
we  passed  the  ruined  front  of  the  magnificent  temple  of 
Antoninus,  now  used  as  the  papal  custom-house.  We  turned 
to  the  right  on  entering  the  Corso,  expecting  to  have  a  view 
of  the  city  from  the  hill  at  its  southern  end.  It  is  a  mag- 
nificent street,  lined  with  palaces  and  splendid  edifices  of 
every  kind  and  always  filled  with  crowds  of  carriages  and 
people.  On  leaving  it,  however,  we  became  bewildered 
among  the  narrow  streets,  passed  through  a  market  of  veg- 
etables crowded  with  beggars  and  contadini,  threaded  many 
by-ways  between  dark  old  buildings,  saw  one  or  two  antique 
fountains  and  many  modern  churches,  and  finally  arrived 
at  a  hill. 

We  ascended  many  steps,  and  then,  descending  a  little 
toward  the  other  side,  saw  suddenly  below  us  the  Roman 
Forum.  I  knew  it  at  once.  And  those  three  Corinthian 
columns  that  stood  near  us :  what  could  they  be  but  the  re- 
mains of  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Stator  ?  We  stood  on  the 
Capitoline  Hill.  At  the  foot  was  the  Arch  of  Septimus 
Severus,  brown  with  age  and  shattered  ;  near  it  stood  the 
majestic  front  of  the  temple  of  Fortune,  its  pillars  of  pol- 
ished granite  glistening  in  the  sun,  as  if  they  had  been 
erected  yesterday ;  while  on  the  left  the  rank  grass  was 
waving  from  the  arches  and  mighty  walls  of  the  palace  of 
the  Csesars.  In  front  ruin  upon  ruin  lined  the  way  for 
half  a  mile,  where  the  Coliseum  towered  grandly  through 
the  blue  morning  mist  at  the  base  of  the  Esquiline  Hill. 

Good  heavens,  what  a  scene!     Grandeur  such  as  the 


THE  COLUMN  OF  TRAJAN.  357 

world  never  saw  once  rose  through  that  blue  atmosphere ; 
splendor  inconceivable,  the  spoils  of  a  world,  the  triumphs 
of  a  thousand  armies,  had  passed  over  that  earth ;  minds 
which  for  ages  moved  the  ancient  world  had  thought  there, 
and  words  of  power  and  glory  from  the  lips  of  immortal 
men  had  been  syllabled  on  that  hallowed  air.  To  call  back 
all  this  on  the  very  spot,  while  the  wreck  of  what  once  was 
rose  mouldering  and  desolate  around,  aroused  a  sublimity 
of  thought  and  feeling  too  powerful  for  words. 

Returning  at  hazard  through  the  streets,  we  came  sud- 
denly upon  the  Column  of  Trajan,  standing  in  an  excavated 
square  below  the  level  of  the  city,  amid  a  number  of  bro- 
ken granite  columns  which  formed  part  of  the  Forum  ded- 
icated to  him  by  Rome  after  the  conquest  of  Dacia.  The 
column  is  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  feet  high  and  entirely 
covered  with  bas-reliefs  representing  his  victories,  winding 
about  it  in  a  spiral  line  to  the  top.  The  number  of  figures 
is  computed  at  two  thousand  five  hundred,  and  they  were 
of  such  excellence  that  Raphael  used  many  of  them  for  his 
models.  They  are 'now  much  defaced,  and  the  column  is 
surmounted  by  a  statue  of  some  saint.  The  inscription  on 
the  pedestal  has  been  erased,  and  the  name  of  Sixtus  V. 
substituted.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  ridiculous  vanity  of 
the  old  popes  in  thus  mutilating  the  finest  monuments  of 
ancient  art.  You  cannot  look  upon  any  relic  of  antiquity 
in  Rome  but  your  eyes  are  assailed  by  the  words  "  Pontifex 
Maximus,"  in  staring  modern  letters.  Even  the  magnifi- 
cent bronzes  of  the  Pantheon  were  stripped  to  make  the 
baldachin  under  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Finding  our  way  back  again,  we  took  a  fresh  start — hap- 
pily, in  the  right  direction — and  after  walking  some  time 
came  out  on  the  Tiber  at  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo.  The 
river  rolled  below  in  his  muddy  glory,  and  in  front,  on  the 
opposite  bank,  stood  "  the  pile  which  Hadrian  reared  on 
high,"  now  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo.  Knowing  that  St. 
Peter's  was  to  be  seen  from  this  bridge,  I  looked  about  in 


358  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

search  of  it.  There  was  only  one  dome  in  sight,  large  and 
of  beautiful  proportions.  I  said  at  once,  "  Surely  that  can- 
not be  St.  Peter's  ?"  On  looking  again,  however,  I  saw  the 
top  of  a  massive  range  of  buildings  near  it  which  corre- 
sponded so  nearly  with  the  pictures  of  the  Vatican  that  I 
was  unwillingly  forced  to  believe  the  mighty  dome  Avas 
really  before  me.  I  recognized  it  as  one  of  those  we  saw 
from  the  Capitol,  but  it  appeared  so  much  smaller  when 
viewed  from  a  greater  distance  that  I  was  quite  deceived. 
On  considering  we  were  still  three-fourths  of  a  mile  from 
it,  and  that  we  could  see  its  minutest  parts  distinctly,  the 
illusion  was  explained. 

Going  directly  down  the  Borgo  Vecchio  toward  it,  it 
seemed  a  long  time  before  we  arrived  at  the  square  of  St. 
Peter's.  When  at  length  we  stood  in  front  with  the  ma- 
jestic colonnade  sweeping  around,  the  fountains  on  each  side 
sending  up  their  showers  of  silvery  spray,  the  mighty  obelisk 
of  Egyptian  granite  piercing  the  sky,  and  beyond  the  great 
front  and  dome  of  the  cathedral,  I  confessed  my  unmingled 
admiration.  It  recalled  to  my  mind  the  grandeur  of  an- 
cient Rome,  and,  mighty  as  her  edifices  must  have  been, 
I  doubt  if  there  were  many  views  more  overpowering  than 
this.  The  facade  of  St.  Peter's  seemed  close  to  us,  but  it 
was  a  third  of  a  mile  distant,  and  the  people  ascending  the 
steps  dwindled  to  pigmies. 

I  passed  the  obelisk,  went  up  the  long  ascent,  crossed  the 
portico,  pushed  aside  the  heavy  leathern  curtain  at  the  en- 
trance, and  stood  in  the  great  nave.  I  need  not  describe 
my  feelings  at  the  sight,  but  I  will  tell  the  dimensions,  and 
you  may  then  fancy  what  they  were.  Before  me  was  a 
marble  plain  six  hundred  feet  long,  and  under  the  cross 
four  hundred  and  seventeen  feet  wide.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  above  sprang  a  glorious  arch  dazzling  with  inlaid 
gold,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  cross  there  were  four  hundred 
feet  of  air  between  me  and  the  top  of  the  dome.  The  sun- 
beam, stealing  through  the  lofty  window  at  one  end  of  the 


THE  VATICAN.  359 

transept,  made  a  bar  of  light  on  the  blue  air,  hazy  with  in- 
cense, one-tenth  of  a  mile  long,  before  it  fell  on  the  mosaics 
and  gilded  shrines  of  the  other  extremity.  The  grand 
cupola  alone,  including  lantern  and  cross,  is  two  hundred 
and  eighty-five  feet  high,  or  sixty  feet  higher  than  the  Bun- 
ker Hill  Monument,  and  the  four  immense  pillars  on  which 
it  rests  are  each  one  hundred  and  thirty-seven  feet  in  cir- 
cumference. It  seems  as  if  human  art  had  outdone  itself 
in  producing  this  temple — the  grandest  which  the  world 
ever  erected  for  the  worship  of  the  living  God.  The  awe 
felt  in  looking  up  at  the  giant  arch  of  marble  and  gold  did 
not  humble  me ;  on  the  contrary,  I  felt  exalted,  ennobled. 
Beings  in  the  form  I  wore  planned  the  glorious  edifice,  and 
it  seemed  that  in  godlike  power  and  perseverance  they  were 
indeed  but  "  a  little  lower  than  the  angels."  I  felt  that,  if 
fallen,  my  race  was  still  mighty  and  immortal. 

The  Vatican  is  only  open  twice  a  week  on  days  which 
are  not  festas;  most  fortunately,  to-day  happened  to  be  one 
of  these,  and  we  took  a  run  through  its  endless  halls.  The 
extent  and  magnificence  of  the  gallery  of  sculpture  is  per- 
fectly amazing.  The  halls,  which  are  filled  to  overflowing 
with  the  finest  works  of  ancient  art,  would,  if  placed  side 
by  side,  make  a  row  more  than  two  miles  in  length.  You 
enter  at  once  into  a  hall  of  marble,  with  a  magnificent 
arched  ceiling,  a  third  of  a  mile  long  :  the  sides  are  covered 
for  a  great  distance  with  inscriptions  of  every  kind,  divided 
into  compartments  according  to  the  era  of  the  empire  to 
which  they  refer.  One  which  I  examined  appeared  to  be 
a  kind  of  index  of  the  roads  in  Italy,  with  the  towns  on 
them,  and  we  could  decipher  on  that  time-worn  block  the 
very  route  I  had  followed  from  Florence  hither. 

Then  came  the  statues,  and  here  I  am  bewildered  how  to 
describe  them.  Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  figures — statues 
of  citizens,  generals,  emperors  and  gods,  fauns,  satyrs  and 
nymphs,  children,  cupids  and  tritons ;  in  fact,  it  seemed  in- 
exhaustible.    Many  of  them,  too,  were  forms  of  matchless 


360  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

beauty.  There  were  Venuses  and  nymphs  born  of  the  loft- 
iest dreams  of  grace ;  fauns  on  whose  faces  shone  the  very 
soul  of  humor,  and  heroes  and  divinities  with  an  air  of  maj- 
esty worthy  the  "  land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men." 

I  am  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  perfection  of  art  attained 
by  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  There  is  scarcely  a  form  of 
beauty  that  has  ever  met  my  eye  which  is  not  to  be  found 
in  this  gallery.  I  should  almost  despair  of  such  another 
blaze  of  glory  on  the  world  were  it  not  my  devout  belief 
that  what  has  been  done  may  be  done  again,  and  had  I  not 
faith  that  the  dawn  in  which  we  live  will  bring  another  day 
equally  glorious.  And  why  should  not  America,  with  the 
experience  and  added  wisdom  which  three  thousand  years 
have  slowly  yielded  to  the  Old  World,  joined  to  the  giant 
energy  of  her  youth  and  freedom,  rebestow  on  the  world 
the  divine  creations  of  art  ?     Let  Powers  answer  ! 

But  let  us  step  on  to  the  hemicycle  of  the  Belvidere  and 
view  some  works  greater  than  any  we  have  yet  seen,  or  even 
imagined.  The  adjoining  gallery  is  filled  with  masterpieces 
of  sculpture,  but  we  will  keep  our  eyes  unwearied  and  merely 
glance  along  the  rows.  At  length  we  reach  a  circular  court 
with  a  fountain  flinging  up  its  waters  in  the  centre.  Before 
us  is  an  open  cabinet;  there  is  a  beautiful  manly  form 
within,  but  you  would  not  for  an  instant  take  it  for  the 
Apollo.  By  the  Gorgon  head  it  holds  aloft  we  recognize 
Canova's  Perseus ;  he  has  copied  the  form  and  attitude  of 
the  Apollo,  but  he  could  not  breathe  into  it  the  same  warm- 
ing fire.  It  seemed  to  me  particularly  lifeless,  and  I  greatly 
preferred  his  Boxers,  who  stand  on  either  side  of  it.  One, 
who  has  drawn  back  in  the  attitude  of  striking,  looks  as  if 
he  could  fell  an  ox  with  a  single  blow  of  his  powerful  arm. 
The  other  is  a  more  lithe  and  agile  figure,  and  there  is  a 
quick  fire  in  his  countenance  which  might  overbalance  the 
massive  strength  of  his  opponent. 

Another  cabinet.  This  is  the  far-famed  Antinous — a 
countenance  of  perfect  Grecian  beauty,  with  a  form  such 


THE  LAOCOON  AND  THE  APOLLO.  361 

as  we  would  imagine  for  one  of  Homer's  heroes.  His  feat- 
ures are  in  repose,  and  there  is  something  in  their  calm  set- 
tled expression  strikingly  like  life. 

Now  we  look  on  a  scene  of  the  deepest  physical  agony. 
Mark  how  every  muscle  of  old  Laocoon's  hody  is  distended 
to  the  utmost  in  the  mighty  struggle !  What  intensity  of 
pain  in  the  quivering,  distorted  features !  Every  nerve 
which  despair  can  call  into  action  is  excited  in  one  giant 
effort,  and  a  scream  of  anguish  seems  just  to  have  quivered 
on  those  marble  lips.  The  serpents  have  rolled  their  strang- 
ling coils  around  father  and  sons,  but  terror  has  taken  away 
the  strength  of  the  latter,  and  they  make  but  feeble  resist- 
ance. After  looking  with  indifference  on  the  many  casts  of 
this  group,  I  was  the  more  moved  by  the  magnificent  origi- 
nal. It  deserves  all  the  admiration  that  has  been  heaped 
upon  it. 

I  absolutely  trembled  on  approaching  the  cabinet  of  the 
Apollo.  I  had  built  up  in  fancy  a  glorious  ideal  drawn 
from  all  that  bards  have  sung  or  artists  have  rhapsodized 
about  its  divine  beauty.  I  feared  disappointment ;  I  dread- 
ed to  have  my  ideal  displaced  and  my  faith  in  the  power 
of  human  genius  overthrown  by  a  form  less  than  perfect. 
However,  with  a  feeling  of  desperate  excitement,  I  entered 
and  looked  upon  it. 

Now,  what  shall  I  say  of  it  ?  How  make  you  comprehend 
its  immortal  beauty  ?  To  what  shall  I  liken  its  glorious 
perfection  of  form  or  the  fire  that  imbues  the  cold  marble 
with  the  soul  of  a  god  ?  Not  with  sculpture — for  it  stands 
alone  and  above  all  other  works  of  art — nor  with  men,  for 
it  has  a  majesty  more  than  human.  I  gazed  on  it  lost  in 
wonder  and  joy — joy  that  I  could  at  last  take  into  my  mind 
a  faultless  ideal  of  godlike,  exalted  manhood.  The  figure 
appears  actually  to  possess  a  spirit,  and  I  looked  on  it,  not 
as  on  a  piece  of  marble,  but  a  being  of  loftier  mould,  and 
half  expected  to  see  him  step  forward  when  the  arrow  had 
reached  its  mark.     I  would  give  worlds  to  feel  one  moment 


362  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  sculptor's  mental  triumph  when  his  work  was  completed  ; 
that  one  exulting  thrill  must  have  repaid  him  for  every  ill 
he  might  have  suffered  on  earth.  With  what  divine  in- 
spiration has  he  wrought  its  faultless  lines!  There  is  a 
spirit  in  every  limb  which  mere  toil  could  not  have  given. 
It  must  have  been  caught  in  those  lofty  moments 

"  When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest, 
A  ray  of  immortality,  and  stood 
Star-like  around  until  they  gathered  to  a  god." 

We  ran  through  a  series  of  halls  roofed  with  golden  stars 
on  a  deep-blue  midnight  sky,  and  filled  with  porphyry  vases, 
black  marble  gods  and  mummies.  Some  of  the  statues 
shone  with  the  matchless  polish  they  had  received  from  a 
Theban  artisan  before  Athens  was  founded,  and  are,  appar- 
ently, as  fresh  and  perfect  as  when  looked  upon  by  the  vas- 
sals of  Sesostris.  Notwithstanding  their  stiff,  rough-hewn 
limbs,  there  were  some  figures  of  great  beauty,  and  they 
gave  me  a  much  higher  idea  of  Egyptian  sculpture.  In  an 
adjoining  hall  containing  colossal  busts  of  the  gods  is  a 
vase  forty-one  feet  in  circumference,  of  one  solid  block  of 
red  porphyry. 

The  "  Transfiguration  "  is  truly  called  the  first  picture  in 
the  world.  The  same  glow  of  inspiration  which  created  the 
Belvidere  must  have  been  required  to  paint  the  Saviour's 
aerial  form.  The  three  figures  hover  above  the  earth  in  a 
blaze  of  glory,  seemingly  independent  of  all  material  laws. 
The  terrified  apostles  on  the  mount,  and  the  wondering 
group  below,  correspond  in  the  grandeur  of  their  expression 
to  the  awe  and  majesty  of  the  scene.  The  only  blemish  in 
the  sublime  perfection  of  the  picture  is  the  introduction  of 
the  two  small  figures  on  the  left  hand — who,  by  the  bye, 
were  cardinals  inserted  there  by  command.  Some  travellers 
say  the  color  is  all  lost,  but  I  was  agreeably  surprised  to 
find  it  well  preserved.  It  is  undoubtedly  somewhat  imper- 
fect <n  this  respect,  as  Raphael  died  before  it  was  entirely 


NEW  YEAR'S  IN  ROME.  363 

finished,  but,  "take  it  all  in  all,"  you  may  search  the  world 
in  vain  to  find  its  equal. 

January  1,  1846. 

New  Year's  day  in  the  Eternal  City !  It  will  be  some- 
thing to  say  in  after-years  that  I  have  seen  one  year  open 
in  Rome — that  while  my  distant  friends  were  making  up 
for  the  winter  without  with  good  cheer  around  the  merry 
board  I  have  walked  in  sunshine  by  the  ruins  of  the  Coli- 
seum, watched  the  orange-groves  gleaming  with  golden 
fruitage  in  the  Farnese  gardens,  trodden  the  daisied  meadow 
around  the  sepulchre  of  Caius  Cestius  and  mused  by  the 
graves  of  Shelley,  Keats  and  Salvator  Rosa.  The  palace 
of  the  Caesars  looked  even  more  mournful  in  the  pale,  slant 
sunshine,  and  the  yellow  Tiber,  as  he  flowed  through  the 
"  marble  wilderness,"  seemed  sullenly  counting  up  the  long 
centuries  during  which  degenerate  slaves  have  trodden  his 
banks.  A  leaden-colored  haze  clothed  the  seven  hills  and 
heavy  silence  reigned  among  the  ruins,  for  all  work  was 
prohibited  and  the  people  were  gathered  in  their  churches. 
Rome  never  appeared  so  desolate  and  melancholy  as  to-day. 

In  the  morning  I  climbed  the  Quirinal  Hill,  now  called 
Monte  Cavallo,  from  the  colossal  statues  of  Castor  and 
Pollux,  with  their  steeds,  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  Phidias 
and  Praxiteles.  They  stand  on  each  side  of  an  obelisk  of 
Egyptian  granite,  beside  which  a  strong  stream  of  water 
gushes  up  into  a  magnificent  bronze  basin  found  in  the 
old  Forum.  The  statues,  entirely  browned  by  age,  are  con- 
sidered masterpieces  of  Grecian  art,  and,  whether  or  not 
from  the  great  masters,  show  in  all  their  proportions  the 
conceptions  of  lofty  genius. 

We  kept  on  our  way  between  gardens  filled  with  orange- 
groves  whose  glowing  fruit  reminded  me  of  Mignon's  beau- 
tiful reminiscence  :  "  Im  dunkeln  Laub  die  Gold  Orangen 
gliihn."  Rome,  although  subject  to  cold  winds  from  the 
Apennines,  enjoys  so  mild  a  climate  that  oranges  and  palm 
trees  grow  in  the  open  air  without  protection.     Daisies  and 


364  VIEWS  A«-FOOT. 

violets  bloom  the  whole  winter  in  the  meadows  of  never- 
fading  green.  The  basilica  of  the  Lateran  equals  St.  Peter's 
in  splendor,  though  its  size  is  much  smaller.  The  walls  are 
covered  with  gorgeous  hangings  of  velvet  embroidered 
with  gold,  and  before  the  high  altar,  which  glitters  with 
precious  stones,  are  four  pillars  of  gilt  bronze  said  to  be 
those  which  Augustus  made  of  the  spars  of  Egyptian  ves- 
sels captured  at  the  battle  of  Actium. 

We  descended  the  hill  to  the  Coliseum,  and,  passing 
under  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  walked  along  the  ancient 
triumphal  way  at  the  foot  of  the  Palatine  Hill,  which  is 
entirely  covered  with  the  ruins  of  the  Csesars'  palace.  A 
road  rounding  its  southern  base  toward  the  Tiber  brought 
us  to  the  temple  of  Vesta — a  beautiful  little  relic  which  has 
been  singularly  spared  by  the  devastations  that  have  over- 
thrown so  many  mightier  fabrics.  It  is  of  circular  form, 
surrounded  by  nineteen  Corinthian  columns  thirty-six  feet 
in  height ;  a  clumsy  tiled  roof  now  takes  the  place  of  the 
elegant  cornice  which  once  gave  the  crowning  charm  to  its 
perfect  proportions.  Close  at  hand  are  the  remains  of  the 
temple  of  Fortuna  Virilis,  of  which  some  Ionic  pillars 
alone  are  left,  and  the  house  of  Cola  di  Rienzi,  the  last  tri- 
bune of  Rome. 

As  we  approached  the  walls  the  sepulchre  of  Caius 
Cestius  came  in  sight — a  single  solid  pyramid  one  hundred 
feet  in  height.  The  walls  are  built  against  it,  and  the  light 
apex  rises  far  above  the  massive  gate  beside  it  which  was 
erected  by  Belisarius.  But  there  were  other  tombs  at  hand 
for  which  we  had  more  sympathy  than  that  of  the  forgotten 
Roman,  and  we  turned  away  to  look  for  the  graves  of 
Shelley  and  Keats. 

They  lie  in  the  Protestant  burying-ground,  on  the  side 
of  a  mound  that  slopes  gently  up  to  the  old  wall  of  Rome 
beside  the  pyramid  of  Cestius.  The  meadow  around  is 
still  verdant  and  sown  thick  with  daisies,  and  the  soft  green 
of  the  Italian  pine  mingles  with  the  dark  cypress  above  the 


THE  GRAVE  OF  SHELLEY.  365 

slumberers.  Huge  aloes  grow  in  the  shade,  and  the  sweet 
bay  and  bushes  of  rosemary  make  the  air  fresh  and  fra- 
grant. There  is  a  solemn,  mournful  beauty  about  the 
place,  green  and  lonely  as  it  is,  beside  the  tottering  walls 
of  ancient  Rome,  that  takes  away  the  gloomy  associations 
of  death,  and  makes  one  wish  to  lie  there  too  when  his 
thread  shall  be  spun  to  the  end. 

We  found  first  the  simple  headstone  of  Keats,  alone  in 
the  grassy  meadow.  Its  inscription  states  that  on  his  death- 
bed, in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  at  the  malice  of  his  ene- 
mies, he  desired  these  words  to  be  written  on  his  tombstone : 
"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  written  in  water."  Not  far 
from  him  reposes  the  son  of  Shelley. 

Shelley  himself  lies  at  the  top  of  the  shaded  slope,  in  a 
lonely  spot  by  the  wall,  surrounded  by  tall  cypresses.  A 
little  hedge  of  rose  and  bay  surrounds  his  grave,  which 
bears  the  simple  inscription,  "  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  ; 
Cor  Cordium." 

"  Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

Glorious  but  misguided  Shelley  !  He  sleeps  calmly  now 
in  that  silent  nook,  and  the  air  around  his  grave  is  filled 
with  sighs  from  those  who  mourn  that  the  bright  erratic 
star  should  have  been  blotted  out  ere  it  reached  the  zenith 
of  its  mounting  fame.  I  plucked  a  leaf  from  the  fragrant 
bay  as  a  token  of  his  fame,  and  a  sprig  of  cypress  from  the 
bough  that  beut  lowest  over  his  grave,  and,  passing  between 
tombs  shaded  with  blooming  roses  or  covered  with  un- 
withered  garlands,  left  the  lovely  spot. 

Amid  the  excitement  of  continually  changing  scenes,  I 
have  forgotten  to  mention  our  first  visit  to  the  Coliseum. 
The  day  after  our  arrival  we  set  out  with  two  English 
friends  to  see  it  by  sunset.  Passing  by  the  glorious  foun- 
tain of  Trevi,  we  made  our  way  to  the  Forum,  and  from 


36  G  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

thence  took  the  road  to  the  Coliseum,  lined  on  both  sides 
with  the  remains  of  splendid  edifices.  The  grass-grown 
ruins  of  the  palace  of  the  Csesars  stretched  along  on  our 
right ;  on  our  left  we  passed  in  succession  the  granite  front 
of  the  temple  of  Antoninus  and  Faustina,  the  three  grand 
arches  of  the  temple  of  Peace  and  the  ruins  of  the  temple 
of  Venus  and  Rome.  We  went  under  the  ruined  trium- 
phal Arch  of  Titus,  with  broken  friezes  representing  the 
taking  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  mighty  walls  of  the  Coliseum 
gradually  rose  before  us.  They  grew  in  grandeur  as  Ave 
approached  them ;  and  when  at  length  we  stood  in  the  centre, 
with  the  shattered  arches  and  grassy  walls  rising  above  and 
beyond  one  another  far  around  us,  the  red  light  of  sunset 
giving  them  a  soft  and  melancholy  beauty,  I  was  fain  to 
confess  that  another  form  of  grandeur  had  entered  my 
mind  of  which  I  before  knew  not. 

A  majesty  like  that  of  nature  clothes  this  wonderful  edi- 
fice. Walls  rise  above  walls  and  arches  above  arches  from 
every  side  of  the  grand  arena  like  a  sweep  of  craggy,  pin- 
nacled mountains  around  an  oval  lake.  The  two  outer  cir- 
cles have  almost  entirely  disappeared,  torn  away  by  the 
rapacious  nobles  of  Rome  during  the  Middle  Ages  to 
build  their  palaces.  When  entire  and  filled  with  its  hun- 
dred thousand  spectators,  it  must  have  exceeded  any 
pageant  which  the  wTorld  can  now  produce.  No  wonder  it 
was  said, 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall 
And  when  Rome  falls,  the  world  " 

— a  prediction  which  time  has  not  verified.  The  world  is 
now  going  forward  prouder  than  ever,  and,  though  we 
thank  Rome  for  the  legacy  she  has  left  us,  we  would  not 
wish  the  dust  of  her  ruin  to  cumber  our  path. 

While  standing  in  the  arena,  impressed  with  the  spirit  of 
the  scene  around  me,  wdiich  grew  more  spectral  and  melan- 


A  COMMENTARY  ON  GEEATNESS.  367 

choly  as  the  dusk  of  evening  began  to  fill  up  the  broken 
arches,  my  eye  was  assailed  by  the  shrines  ranged  around 
the  space,  doubtless  to  remove  the  pollution  of  paganism. 
In  the  middle  stands,  also,  a  cross  with  an  inscription 
granting  an  absolution  of  forty  days  to  all  who  kiss  it. 
Now,  although  a  simple  cross  in  the  centre  might  be  very 
appropriate,  both  as  a  token  of  the  heroic  devotion  of  the 
martyr  Telemachus  and  the  triumph  of  a  true  religion  over 
the  barbarities  of  the  past,  this  congregation  of  shrines  and 
bloody  pictures  mars  very  much  the  unity  of  association  so 
necessary  to  the  perfect  enjoyment  of  any  such  scene. 

We  saw  the  flush  of  sunset  fade  behind  the  Capitoline 
Hill,  and  passed  homeward  by  the  Forum  as  its  shattered 
pillars  were  growing  solemn  and  spectral  through  the  twi- 
light. I  intend  to  visit  them  often  again  and  "  meditate 
amongst  decay."  I  begin  already  to  grow  attached  to  their 
lonely  grandeur.  A  spirit  almost  human  speaks  from  the 
desolation,  and  there  is  something  in  the  voiceless  oracles  it 
utters  that  strikes  an  answering  chord  in  my  own  breast. 

In  the  Via  de'  Pontifici,  not  far  distant  from  the  Borghese 
Palace,  we  saw  the  mausoleum  of  Augustus.  It  is  a  large 
circular  structure  somewhat  after  the  plan  of  that  of 
Hadrian,  but  on  a  much  smaller  scale.  The  interior  has 
been  cleared  out,  seats  erected  around  the  walls,  and  the 
whole  is  now  a  summer  theatre  for  the  amusement,  of  the 
peasantry  and  tradesmen.  What  a  commentary  on  great- 
ness !  Harlequin  playing  his  pranks  in  the  tomb  of  an  em- 
peror, and  the  spot  which  nations  approached  with  rever- 
ence resounding  with  the  mirth  of  beggars  and  degraded 
vassals ! 

I  visited  lately  the  studio  of  a  young  Philadelphian,  Mr. 
W.  B.  Chambers,  who  has  been  here  two  or  three  years.  In 
studying  the  legacies  of  art  which  the  old  masters  left  to 
their  country,  he  has  caught  some  of  the  genuine  poetic  in- 
spiration which  warmed  them.  But  he  is  modest  as  tal- 
ented, and  appears  to  undervalue  his  works  so  long  as  they 


368  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

do  not  reach  his  own  mental  ideal.  He  chooses  principally 
subjects  from  the  Italian  peasant-life,  which  abounds  with 
picturesque  and  classic  beauty.  His  pictures  of  the  shep- 
herd-boy of  the  Albruzzi  and  the  brown  maidens  of  the 
Campagna  are  fine  illustrations  of  this  class,  and  the  fidelity 
with  which  he  copies  nature  is  an  earnest  of  his  future 
success. 

I  was  in  the  studio  of  Crawford,  the  sculptor ;  he  has  at 
present  nothing  finished  in  the  marble.  There  were  many 
casts  of  his  former  works,  which,  judging  from  their  ap- 
pearance in  plaster,  must  be  of  no  common  excellence ;  for 
the  sculptor  can  only  be  justly  judged  in  marble.  I  saw 
some  fine  bas-reliefs  of  classical  subjects  and  an  exquisite 
group  of  Mercury  and  Psyche,  but  his  masterpiece  is  un- 
doubtedly the  Orj)heus.  There  is  a  spirit  in  this  figure 
which  astonished  me.  The  face  is  full  of  the  inspiration  of 
the  poet  softened  by  the  lover's  tenderness,  and  the  whole 
fervor  of  his  soul  is  expressed  in  the  eagerness  with  which 
he  gazes  forward  on  stepping  past  the  sleeping  Cerberus. 
Crawford  is  now  engaged  on  the  statue  of  an  Indian  girl 
pierced  by  an  arrow  and  dying.  It  is  a  simple  and  touch- 
ing figure,  and  will,  I  think,  be  one  of  his  best  works. 

We  are  often  amused  with  the  groups  in  the  square  of 
the  Pantheon,  which  we  can  see  from  our  chamber-window. 
Shoemakers  and  tinkers  carry  on  their  business  along  the 
sunny  side,  while  the  venders  of  oranges  and  roasted  chestnuts 
form  a  circle  around  the  Egyptian  obelisk  and  fountain. 
Across  the  end  of  an  opposite  street  we  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
vegetable  market,  and  now  and  then  the  shrill  voice  of  a 
pedler  makes  its  nasal  solo  audible  above  the  confused  cho- 
rus. As  the  beggars  choose  the  Corso,  St.  Peter's  and  the 
ruins  for  their  principal  haunts,  we  are  now  spared  the 
hearing  of  their  lamentations.  Every  time  we  go  out  we 
are  assailed  with  them.  "  Maladetta  sia  la  vostra  testa  /" 
— "  Curses  be  upon  your  head  !" — said  one  whom  I  passed 
without  notice.     The  priests  are,  however,  the  greatest  beg- 


TRATTORIA  DEL  SOLE.  3G9 

gars.  In  every  church  are  kept  offering-boxes,  for  the  sup- 
port of  the  church  or  some  unknown  institution  ;  they  even 
go  from  house  to  house  imploring  support  and  assistance  in 
the  name  of  the  Virgin  and  all  the  saints,  while  their 
bloated,  sensual  countenances  and  capacious  frames  tell  of 
anything  but  fasts  and  privations.  Once,  as  I  was  sitting 
among  the  ruins,  I  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  loud,  rattling 
sound ;  turning  my  head,  I  saw  a  figure  clothed  in  white 
from  head  to  foot,  with  only  two  small  holes  for  the  eyes. 
He  held  in  his  hand  a  money-box  on  which  was  a  figure  of 
the  Virgin,  which  he  held  close  to  my  lips  that  I  might  kiss  it. 
This  I  declined  doing,  but  dropped  a  baiocco  into  his  box, 
when,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he  silently  disappeared. 

Our  present  lodging  (Trattoria  del  Sole)  is  a  good  speci- 
men of  an  Italian  inn  for  mechanics  and  common  tradesmen. 
Passing  through  the  front  room — which  is  an  eating-place 
for  the  common  people,  with  a  barrel  of  wine  in  the  corner 
and  bladders  of  lard  hanging  among  orange  boughs  in  the 
window — we  enter  a  dark  court-yard  filled  with  heavy  carts 
and  noisy  with  the  neighing  of  horses  and  singing  of  grooms, 
for  the  stables  occupy  part  of  the  house.  An  open  staircase 
running  all  around  this  hollow  square  leads  to  the  second, 
third  and  fourth  stories. 

On  the  second  story  is  the  dining-room  for  the  better  class 
of  travellers,  who  receive  the  same  provisions  as  those  below 
for  double  the  price  and  the  additional  privilege  of  giving 
the  waiter  two  baiocchi.  The  sleeping-apartments  are  in  the 
fourth  story,  and  are  named  according  to  the  fancy  of  a 
former  landlord  in  mottoes  above  each  door.  Thus,  on  ar- 
riving here,  the  Triester,  with  his  wife  and  child,  more  for- 
tunate than  our  first  parents,  took  refuge  in  "  Paradise," 
while  we  Americans  were  ushered  into  the  "Chamber  of 
Jove."  We  have  occupied  it  ever  since,  and  find  a  paid 
(ten  cents)  apiece  cheap  enough  for  a  good  bed  and  a  win- 
dow opening  on  the  Pantheon. 

Next  to  the  Coliseum,  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  are  the 
U 


370  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

grandest  remains  of  Rome.  The  building  is  a  thousand  feet 
square,  and  its  massive  walls  look  as  if  built  by  a  race  of 
giants.  These  Titan  remains  are  covered  with  green  shrub- 
bery, and  long,  trailing  vines  sweep  over  the  cornice  and 
wave  down  like  tresses  from  architrave  and  arch.  In  some 
of  its  grand  halls  the  mosaic  pavement  is  yet  entire.  The 
excavations  are  still  carried  on  ;  from  the  number  of  statues 
already  found,  this  would  seem  to  have  been  one  of  the  most 
gorgeous  edifices  of  the  olden  time. 

I  have  been  now  several  days  loitering  and  sketching 
among  the  ruins,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could  willingly  wander 
for  months  beside  these  mournful  relics  and  draw  inspira- 
tion from  the  lofty  yet  melancholy  lore  they  teach.  There 
is  a  spirit  haunting  them  real  and  undoubted.  Every  shat- 
tered column,  every  broken  arch  and  mouldering  wall,  but 
calls  up  more  vividly  to  mind  the  glory  that  has  passed 
away.  Each  lonely  pillar  stands  as  proudly  as  if  it  still 
helped  to  bear  up  the  front  of  a  glorious  temple,  and  the 
air  seems  scarcely  to  have  ceased  vibrating  with  the  clarions 
that  heralded  a  conqueror's  triumph. 

"the  old  majestic  trees 
Stand  gliost-like  in  the  Caesar's  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Home, 

And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet. 

***** 
"  There  every  mouldering  stone  beneatli 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought, 
And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were  wrought, 
And  sunder'd  arch  and  plundered  tomb 
Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  '  Rome !'  " 

In  Rome  there  is  no  need  that  the  imagination  be  excited 
to  call  up  thrilling  emotion  or  poetic  reverie :  they  are 
forced  on  the  mind  by  the  sublime  spirit  of  the  scene.  The 
roused  bard  might  here  pour  forth  his  thoughts  in  the  wild- 


MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  COLISEUM.  371 

est  climaxes,  aud  I  could  believe  he  felt  it  all.  This  is  like 
the  Italy  of  my  dreams — that  golden  realm  whose  image 
has  been  nearly  chased  away  by  the  earthly  reality.  I  ex- 
pected to  find  a  land  of  light  and  beauty  where  every  step 
crushed  a  flower  or  displaced  a  sunbeam,  whose  very  air  was 
poetic  inspiration,  and  whose  every  scene  filled  the  soul  with 
romantic  feelings.  Nothing  is  left  of  my  picture  but  the 
far-off  mountains  robed  in  the  sapphire  veil  of  the  Ausonian 
air,  and  these  ruins  amid  whose  fallen  glory  sits  triumphant 
the  spirit  of  ancient  song. 

I  have  seen  the  flush  of  morn  and  eve  rest  on  the  Coli- 
seum ;  I  have  seen  the  noonday  sky  framed  in  its  broken 
loopholes  like  plates  of  polished  sapphire  ;  and  last  night, 
as  the  moon  has  grown  into  the  zenith,  I  went  to  view  it  wTith 
her.  Around  the  Forum  all  was  silent  and  spectral ;  a  sen- 
tinel challenged  us  at  the  Arch  of  Titus,  under  which  we 
passed,  and  along  the  Caesar's  wall,  which  lay  in  black 
shadow.  Dead  stillness  brooded  around  the  Coliseum  ;  the 
pale,  silvery  lustre  streamed  through  its  arches  and  over 
the  grassy  walls,  giving  them  a  look  of  shadowy  grandeur 
which  day  could  not  bestow.  The  scene  will  remain  fresh 
in  my  memory  for  ever. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

TIVOLI   AND   THE   ROMAN   CAMPAGNA. 

January  9. 
A  few  days  ago  we  returned  from  an  excursion  to  Tivoli, 
one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  Italy.  We  left  the  Eternal 
City  by  the  gate  of  San  Lorenzo,  and  twenty  minutes'  walk 
brought  us  to  the  bare  and  bleak  Campagna,  which  was 
spread  around  us  for  leagues  in  every  direction.  Here  and 
there  a  shepherd-boy  in  his  woolly  coat,  and  his  flock  of 


372  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

browsing  sheep,  were  the  only  objects  that  broke  its  desert- 
like monotony. 

At  the  fourth  mile  we  crossed  the  rapid  Anio,  the  ancient 
Teverone,  formerly  the  boundary  between  Latium  and  the 
Sabine  dominions,  and  at  the  tenth  came  upon  some  frag- 
ments of  the  old  Tiburtine  Way,  formed  of  large  irregular 
blocks  of  basaltic  lava.  A  short  distance  farther  we  saw 
across  the  plain  the  ruins  of  the  Bath  of  Agrippa,  built  by 
the  side  of  the  Tartarean  Lake.  The  wind  blowing  from 
it  bore  us  an  overpowering  smell  of  sulphur ;  the  waters 
of  the  little  river  Solfatara,  which  crosses  the  road,  are  of 
a  milky  blue  color,  and  carry  those  of  the  lake  into  the 
Anio.     A  fragment  of  the  old  bridge  over  it  still  remains. 

Finding  the  water  quite  warm,  we  determined  to  have  a 
bath ;  so  we  ran  down  the  plain,  which  was  covered  with  a 
thick  coat  of  sulphur  and  sounded  hollow  to  our  tread,  till 
we  reached  a  convenient  place,  where  we  threw  off  our 
clothes  and  plunged  in.  The  warm  wave  was  delightful  to 
the  skin,  but  extremely  offensive  to  the  smell ;  and  when 
we  came  out,  our  mouths  and  throats  were  filled  with  the 
stifling  gas. 

It  was  growing  dark  as  we  mounted  through  the  narrow 
streets  of  Tivoli,  but  we  endeavored  to  gain  some  sight  of 
the  renowned  beauties  of  the  spot  before  going  to  rest. 
From  a  platform  on  a  brow  of  the  hill  we  looked  down  into 
the  defile  at  whose  bottom  the  Anio  was  roaring,  and  caught 
a  sideward  glance  of  the  Cascatelles,  sending  up  their  spray 
amid  the  evergreen  bushes  that  fringe  the  rocks.  Above 
the  deep  glen  that  curves  into  the  mountain  stands  the 
beautiful  temple  of  the  Sybil,  a  building  of  the  most  per- 
fect and  graceful  proportion.  It  crests  the  "  rocky  brow  " 
like  a  fairy-dwelling,  and  looks  all  the  lovelier  for  the  wild 
caverns  below.  Gazing  downward  from  the  bridge,  one 
sees  the  waters  of  the  Anio  tumbling  into  the  picturesque 
Grotto  of  the  Sirens ;  around  a  rugged  corner  a  cloud  of 
white  spray  whirls  up  continually,  while  the  boom  of  a  cat- 


CASCADE  OF  THE  ANIO.  373 

aract  rumbles  down  the  glen.  All  these  we  marked  in  the 
deepening  dusk,  and  then  hunted  an  albergo.  The  shrill- 
voiced  hostess  gave  us  a  good  supper  and  clean  beds ;  in 
return  we  diverted  the  people  very  much  by  the  relation 
of  our  sulphur-bath. 

We  were  awakened  in  the  night  by  the  wind  shaking  the 
very  soul  out  of  our  loose  casement.  I  fancied  I  heard  tor- 
rents of  rain  dashing  against  the  panes,  and  groaned  in  bit- 
terness of  spirit  on  thinking  of  a  walk  back  to  Rome  in 
such  weather.  When  morning  came,  we  found  it  was  only 
a  hurricane  of  wind  which  was  strong  enough  to  tear  off 
pieces  of  the  old  roofs.  I  saw  some  Capuchins  nearly  over- 
turned in  crossing  the  square  by  the  wind  seizing  their 
white  robes. 

I  had  my  fingers  frozen  and  my  eyes  filled  with  sand  in 
trying  to  draw  the  Sybil's  temple,  and  therefore  left  it  to 
join  my  companions,  who  had  gone  down  into  the  glen  to 
see  the  great  cascade.  The  Anio  bursts  out  of  a  cavern  in 
the  mountain-side,  and  like  a  prisoner  giddy  with  recovered 
liberty  reels  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  deep.  The  bottom  is  hid  in  a  cloud  of  boil- 
ing spray  that  shifts  from  side  to  side  and,  driven  by  the 
wind,  sweeps  whistling  down  the  narrow  pass.  It  stuns  the 
ear  with  a  perpetual  boom,  giving  a  dash  of  grandeur  to 
the  enrapturing  beauty  of  the  scene.  I  tried  a  footpath 
that  appeared  to  lead  down  to  the  Cascatelles,  but  after  ad- 
vancing some  distance  along  the  side  of  an  almost  perpen- 
dicular precipice  I  came  to  a  corner  that  looked  so  danger- 
ous, especially  as  the  wind  was  nearly  strong  enough  to 
carry  me  off,  that  it  seemed  safest  to  return.  We  made  an- 
other vain  attempt  to  get  down  by  creeping  along  the  bed 
of  a  torrent  filled  with  briers. 

The  Cascatelles  are  formed  by  that  part  of  the  Anio 
which  is  used  in  the  iron-works  made  out  of  the  ruins  of 
Meceenas'  villa.  They  gush  out  from  under  the  ancient 
arches  and  tumble  more  than  a  hundred  feet  down  the 


374  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

precipice,  their  white  waters  gleaming  out  from  the  dark 
and  feathery  foliage.  Not  far  distant  are  the  remains  of 
the  villa  of  Horace. 

We  took  the  road  to  Frascati,  and  walked  for  miles  among 
cane-swamps  and  over  plains  covered  with  sheep.  The  peo- 
ple we  saw  were  most  degraded  and  ferocious-looking,  and 
there  were  many  I  would  not  willingly  meet  alone  after  night- 
fall. Indeed,  it  is  still  considered  quite  unsafe  to  venture  with- 
out the  walls  of  Rome  after  dark.  The  women,  with  their 
yellow  complexions  and  the  bright  red  blankets  they  wear 
folded  around  the  head  and  shoulders,  resemble  Indian 
squaws. 

I  lately  spent  three  hours  in  the  museum  of  the  Capitol, 
on  the  summit  of  the  sacred  hill.  In  the  Hall  of  the  Glad- 
iator I  noticed  an  exquisite  statue  of  Diana.  There  is  a 
pure  virgin  grace  in  the  classic  outlines  of  the  figure  that 
keeps  the  eye  long  upon  it.  The  face  is  full  of  cold,  ma- 
jestic dignity,  but  it  is  the  ideal  of  a  being  to  be  worshipped 
rather  than  loved.  The  Faun  of  Praxiteles,  in  the  same 
room,  is  a  glorious  work ;  it  is  the  perfect  embodiment  of 
that  wild,  merry  race  the  Grecian  poets  dreamed  of.  One 
looks  on  the  Gladiator  with  a  hushed  breath  and  an  awed 
spirit.  He  is  dying ;  the  blood  flows  more  slowly  from  the 
deep  wound  in  his  side  ;  his  head  is  sinking  downward,  and 
the  arm  that  supports  his  body  becomes  more  and  more 
nerveless.  You  feel  that  a  dull  mist  is  coming  over  his 
vision,  and  almost  wait  to  see  his  relaxing  limbs  sink  sud- 
denly on  his  shield.  That  the  rude  barbarian  form  has  a 
soul  may  be  read  in  his  touchingly  expressive  countenance. 
It  warms  the  sympathies  like  reality  to  look  upon  it,  yet 
how  many  Romans  may  have  gazed  on  this  work  moved 
nearly  to  tears  who  have  seen  hundreds  perish  in  the  arena 
without  a  pitying  emotion !  Why  is  it  that  Art  has  a  voice 
frequently  more  powerful  than  Nature  ? 

How  cold  it  is  here !    I  was  forced  to  run  home  to-night 


TOMB  OF  CECILIA  METELLA.  375 

nearly  at  full  speed  from  the  Cafe  delle  Belle  Arti,  through 
the  Corso  and  the  Piazza  Colonna,  to  keep  warm.  The 
clear,  frosty  moon  threw  the  shadow  of  the  Column  of  An- 
toninus over  me  as  I  passed,  and.it  made  me  shiver  to  look 
at  the  thin  falling  sheet  of  the  fountain.  Winter  is  Winter 
everywhere,  and  even  the  sun  of  Italy  cannot  always  scorch 
his  icy  wings. 

Two  days  ago  we  took  a  ramble  outside  the  walls.  Pass- 
ing the  Coliseum  and  Caracalla's  Baths,  we  reached  the 
tomb  of  Scipio,  a  small  sepulchral  vault  near  the  roadside. 
The  ashes  of  the  warrior  were  scattered  to  the  winds  long 
ago  and  his  mausoleum  is  fast  falling  to  decay.  The  old 
arch  over  the  Appian  Way  is  still  standing,  near  the  mod- 
ern Porta  San  Sebastiano,  through  which  we  entered  on  the 
far-famed  road.  Here  and  there  it  is  quite  entire,  and  we 
walked  over  the  stones  once  worn  by  the  feet  of  Virgil  and 
Horace  and  Cicero.  After  passing  the  temple  of  Romulus 
— a  shapeless  and  ivy-grown  ruin — and  walking  a  mile  or 
more  beyond  the  walls,  we  reached  the  Circus  of  Caracalla, 
whose  long  and  shattered  walls  fill  the  hollow  of  one  of  the 
little  dells  of  the  Campagna.  The  original  structure  must 
have  been  of  great  size  and  splendor,  but  those  twin-van- 
dals Time  and  Avarice  have  stripped  away  everything  but 
the  lofty  brick  masses,  whose  nakedness  the  pitying  ivy 
strives  to  cover. 

Farther,  on  a  gentle  slope,  is  the  tomb  of  "  the  wealthiest 
Roman's  wife,"  familiar  to  every  one  through  Childe  Har- 
old's musings.  It  is  a  round  massive  tower  faced  with  large 
blocks  of  marble,  and  still  bearing  the  name  of  Cecilia 
Metella.  One  side  is  much  ruined,  and  the  top  is  overgrown 
with  grass  and  wild  bushes.  The  wall  is  about  thirty  feet 
thick  ;  so  that  but  a  small  round  space  is  left  in  the  interior, 
which  is  open  to  the  rain  and  filled  with  rubbish.  The  echoes 
pronounced  hollowly  after  us  the  name  of  the  dead  for 
whom  it  was  built,  but  they  could  tell  us  nothing  of  her 
life's  history. 


376  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

"How  lived,  how  loved,  how  died,  she?" 

I  made  a  hurried  drawing  of  it,  and  we  then  turned  to  the 
left,  across  the  Campagna,  to  seek  the  Grotto  of  Egeria. 
Before  us,  across  the  brown  plain,  extended  the  Sabine 
Mountains ;  in  the  clear  air  the  houses  of  Tivoli,  twenty 
miles  distant,  were  plainly  visible.  The  giant  aqueduct 
stretched  in  a  long  line  across  the  Campagna  to  the  moun- 
tain of  Albano,  its  broken  and  disjointed  arches  resembling 
the  vertebrae  of  some  mighty  monster.  With  the  ruins  of 
temples  and  tombs  strewing  the  plain  for  miles  around  it, 
it  might  be  called  the  spine  to  the  skeleton  of  Rome. 

We  passed  many  ruins  made  beautiful  by  the  clinging 
ivy,  and  reached  a  solemn  grove  of  evergreen  oak  overlook- 
ing a  secluded  valley.  I  was  soon  in  the  meadow,  leaping 
ditches,  rustling  through  canebrakes  and  climbing  up  to 
mossy  arches  to  find  out  the  fountain  of  Numa's  nymph, 
while  my  companion,  who  had  less  taste  for  the  romantic, 
looked  on  complacently  from  the  leeward  side  of  the  hill. 
At  length  we  found  an  arched  vault  in  the  hillside  over- 
hung with  wild  vines  and  shaded  in  summer  by  umbrage- 
ous trees  that  grow  on  the  soil  above.  At  the  farther  end 
a  stream  of  water  gushed  out  from  beneath  a  broken  statue, 
and  an  aperture  in  the  wall  revealed  a  dark  cavern  behind. 
This,  then,  was  "  Egeria's  grot."  The  ground  was  trampled 
by  the  feet  of  cattle,  and  the  taste  of  the  water  was  any- 
thing but  pleasant.  But  it  was  not  for  Numa  and  his  nymph 
alone  that  I  sought  it  so  ardently.  The  sunbeam  of  another 
mind  lingers  on  the  spot.  See  how  it  gilds  the  ruined  and 
neglected  fount ! 


■'o' 


"  The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled, 

Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  wild  green  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;  no  more  its  sparkling  waters  sleep, 


ST.  PETER'S.  377 

Prisoned  in  marble :  bubbling  from  tbe  base 

Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  'round  fern,  flowers  and  ivy  creep, 
Fantastically  tangled." 

I  tried  to  creep  into  the  grotto,  but  it  was  unpleasantly  dark, 
and  no  nymph  appeared  to  chase  away  the  shadow  with  her 
lustrous  eyes.  The  whole  hill  is  pierced  by  subterranean 
chambers  and  passages. 

I  spent  another  Sunday  morning  in  St.  Peter's.  High 
mass  was  being  celebrated  in  one  of  the  side-chapels,  and  a 
great  number  of  the  priesthood  were  present.  The  music 
was  simple,  solemn  and  very  impressive,  and  a  fine  effect 
was  produced  by  the  combination  of  the  full,  sonorous  voices  of 
the  priests  and  the  divine  sweetness  of  that  band  of  mutilated 
unfortunates  who  sing  here.  They  sang  with  a  full,  clear 
tone  sweet  as  the  first  lispings  of  a  child,  but  it  was  painful 
to  hear  that  melody,  purchased  at  the  expense  of  manhood. 

Near  the  dome  is  a  bronze  statue  of  St.  Peter  which 
seems  to  have  a  peculiar  atmosphere  of  sanctity.  People 
say  their  prayers  before  it  by  hundreds  and  then  kiss  its 
toe,  which  is  nearly  worn  away  by  the  application  of  so 
many  thousand  lips.  I  saw  a  crowd  struggle  most  irrever- 
ently to  pay  their  devotion  to  it.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  jostling  and  confusion ;  some  went  so  far  as  to  thrust  the 
faces  of  others  against  the  toe  as  they  were  about  to  kiss  it. 
What  is  more  remarkable,  it  is  an  antique  statue  of  Jupiter — 
taken,  I  believe,  from  the  Pantheon.  An  English  artist, 
showing  it  to  a  friend  just  arrived  in  Rome,  remarked  very 
wittily  that  it  was  the  statue  of  Jeio-Peter. 

I  went  afterward  to  the  Villa  Borghese,  outside  the  Porta 
del  Popolo.  The  gardens  occupy  thirty  or  forty  acres,  and 
are  always  thronged  in  the  afternoon  with  the  carriages  of 
the  Roman  and  foreign  nobility.  In  summer  it  must  be  a 
heavenly  place ;  even  now,  with  its  musical  fountains,  long 
avenues  and  grassy  slopes  crowned  with  the  fanlike  branches 
of  the  Italian  pine,  it  reminds  one  of  the  fairy  landscapes  of 


378  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Boccaccio.  We  threaded  our  way  through  the  press  of 
carriages  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  and  saw  the  enormous  bulk 
of  St.  Peter's  loom  up  against  the  sunset  sky.  I  counted 
forty  domes  and  spires  in  that  part  of  Rome  that  lay  below 
us,  but  on  what  a  marble  glory  looked  that  sun  eighteen 
centuries  ago !  Modern  Rome !  It  is  in  comparison  a  den 
of  filth,  cheats  and  beggars. 

Yesterday,  while  taking  a  random  stroll  through  the  city, 
I  visited  the  church  of  St.  Onofrio,  where  Tasso  is  buried. 
It  is  not  far  from  St.  Peter's,  on  the  summit  of  a  lonely  hill. 
The  building  was  closed,  but  an  old  monk  admitted  us  on 
application.  The  interior  is  quite  small,  but  very  old,  and 
the  floor  is  covered  with  the  tombs  of  princes  and  prelates 
of  a  past  century.  Near  the  end  I  found  a  small  slab  with 
the  inscription, 

TORQUATI  TASSI 

OSSA 

HIC   JACENT. 

That  was  all,  but  what  more  was  needed  ?  Who  knows  not 
the  name  and  fame  and  sufferings  of  the  glorious  bard? 
The  pomp  of  gold  and  marble  are  not  needed  to  deck  the 
slumber  of  genius.  On  the  wall,  above,  hangs  an  old  and 
authentic  portrait  of  him  very  similar  to  the  engravings  in 
circulation.  A  crown  of  laurel  encircles  the  lofty  brow, 
and  the  eye  has  that  wild,  mournful  expression  which 
accords  so  well  with  the  mysterious  tale  of  his  love  and 
madness. 

Owing  to  the  mountain-storms,  which  imposed  on  us  the 
expense  of  a  carriage-journey  to  Rome,  we  shall  be  pre- 
vented from  going  farther.  One  great  cause  of  this  is  the 
heavy  fee  required  for  passports  in  Italy.  In  most  of  the 
Italian  cities  the  cost  of  the  different  vises  amounts  to  four 
or  five  dollars  ;  a  few  such  visits  as  these  reduce  our  funds 
very  materially.  The  American  consul's  fee  is  two  dollars, 
owing  to  the  illiberal  course  of  our  government  in  withhold- 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES.  379 

ing  all  salary  from  her  consuls  in  Europe.  Mr.  Brown, 
however,  in  whose  family  we  spent  last  evening  very  pleas- 
antly, on  our  requesting  that  he  would  deduct  something 
from  the  usual  fee,  kindly  declined  accepting  anything. 
We  felt  this  kindness  the  more  as,  from  the  character  which 
some  of  our  late  consuls  bear  in  Italy,  we  had  not  antici- 
pated it.  We  shall  remember  him  with  deeper  gratitude 
than  many  would  suppose  who  have  never  known  what  it 
was  to  be  a  foreigner. 

To-morrow,  therefore,  we  leave  Rome ;  here  is,  at  last, 
the  limit  of  our  wanderings.  We  have  spent  much  toil 
and  privation  to  reach  here,  and  now,  after  two  weeks'  ram- 
bling and  musing  among  the  mighty  relics  of  past  glory,  we 
turn  our  faces  homeward.  The  thrilling  hope  I  cherished 
during  the  whole  pilgrimage  to  climb  Parnassus  and  drink 
from  Castaly  under  the  blue  heaven  of  Greece  (both  far 
easier  than  the  steep  hill  and  hidden  fount  of  poesy  I  wor- 
ship afar  off),  to  sigh  for  fallen  art  beneath  the  broken 
friezes  of  the  Parthenon  and  look  with  a  pilgrim's  eye  on 
the  isles  of  Homer  and  of  Sappho  must  be  given  up,  unwill- 
ingly and  sorrowfully  though  it  be.  These  glorious  antici- 
pations— among  the  brightest  that  blessed  my  boyhood — are 
slowly  wrung  from  me  by  stern  necessity.  Even  Naples, 
the  lovely  Parthenope,  where  the  Mantuan  bard  sleeps  on 
the  sunny  shore  by  the  bluest  of  summer  seas,  with  the  dis- 
interred Pompeii  beyond  and  Paestum  amid  its  roses  on  the 
lonely  Calabrian  plain, — even  this,  almost  within  sight  of 
the  cross  of  St.  Peter's,  is  barred  from  me. — Farewell,  then, 
clime  of  "  fame  and  eld,"  since  it  must  be.  A  pilgrim's 
blessing  for  the  lore  ye  have  taught  him ! 


380  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

Palo. 

The  sea  is  breaking  in  long  swells  below  the  window,  and 
a  glorious  planet  shines  in  the  place  of  the  sunset  that  has 
died  away.  This  is  our  first  resting-place  since  leaving 
Rome.  We  have  been  walking  all  day  over  the  bare  and 
dreary  Campagna,  and  it  is  a  relief  to  look  at  last  on  the 
broad  blue  expanse  of  the  Tyrrhene  Sea. 

When  we  emerged  from  the  cool  alleys  of  Rome  and  be- 
gan to  climb  up  and  down  the  long  barren  swells,  the  sun 
beat  down  on  us  with  an  almost  summer  heat.  On  crossing 
a  ridge  near  Castle  Guido  we  took  our  last  look  of  Rome, 
and  saw  from  the  other  side  the  sunshine  lying  like  a  daz- 
zling belt  on  the  far  Mediterranean.  The  country  is  one 
of  the  most  wretched  that  can  be  imagined.  Miles  and 
miles  of  uncultivated  land  with  scarcely  a  single  habitation 
extend  on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  the  few  shepherds 
who  watch  their  flocks  in  the  marshy  hollows  look  wild  and 
savage  enough  for  any  kind  of  crime.  It  made  me  shud- 
der to  see  every  face  bearing  such  a  villanous  stamp. 

Citita  Vecchia,  Jan.  11. 
We  left  Palo  just  after  sunrise,  and  walked  in  the  cool 
of  the  mornina;  beside  the  blue  Mediterranean.  On  the 
right  the  low  outposts  of  the  Apennines  rose  bleak  and 
brown,  the  narrow  plain  between  them  and  the  shore  resem- 
bling a  desert,  so  destitute  was  it  of  the  signs  of  civilized 
life.  A  low  white  cloud  that  hung  over  the  sea  afar  off 
showed  us  the  locality  of  Sardinia,  though  the  land  was  not 
visible.  The  sun  shone  down  warmly,  and,  with  the  blue 
sky  and  bluer  sea,  we  could  easily  have  imagined  a  milder 
season.  The  barren  scenery  took  a  new  interest  in  my  eyes 
when  I  remembered  that  I  Avas  spending  amidst  it  that 
birthday  which  removes  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  from 
dependent  youth  to  responsible  manhood. 


PROVENCE.  381 

In  the  afternoon  we  found  a  beautiful  cove  in  a  curve  of 
the  shore,  and  went  to  bathe  in  the  cold  surf.  It  was  very 
refreshing,  but  not  quite  equal  to  the  sulphur-bath  on  the 
road  to  Tivoli.  The  mountains  now  ran  closer  to  the  sea, 
and  the  road  was  bordered  with  thickets  of  myrtle.  I 
stopped  often  to  beat  my  staff  into  the  bushes  and  inhale 
the  fragrance  that  arose  from  their  crushed  leaves.  The 
hills  were  covered  with  this  poetical  shrub,  and  any  acre  of 
the  ground  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  florist  at  home. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  a  sky  of  orange  and  rose  as  Civita 
Vecchia  came  in  sight  on  a  long  headland  before  us.  Be- 
yond the  sea  stretched  the  dim  hills  of  Corsica.  We  walked 
nearly  an  hour  in  the  clear  moonlight  by  the  sounding 
shore  before  the  gate  of  the  city  was  reached.  We  have 
found  a  tolerable  inn,  and  are  now  enjoying  the  pleasures 
of  supper  and  rest. 

Marseilles,  January  16. 

At  length  we  tread  the  shore  of  France — of  sunny  Prov- 
ence, the  last  unvisited  realm  we  have  to  roam  through  be- 
fore returning  home.  It  is  with  a  feeling  of  more  than 
common  relief  that  we  see  around  us  the  lively  faces  and 
hear  the  glib  tongues  of  the  French.  It  is  like  an  earnest 
that  the  "  roughing  "  we  have  undergone  among  Bohemian 
boors  and  Italian  savages  is  wellnigh  finished,  and  that 
henceforth  we  shall  find  civilized  sympathy  and  politeness, 
if  nothing  more,  to  make  the  way  smoother.  Perhaps  the 
three  woeful  days  which  terminated  at  half-past  two  yester- 
day afternoon,  as  we  passed  through  the  narrow  strait  into 
the  beautiful  harbor  which  Marseilles  encloses  in  her  shel- 
tering heart,  make  it  still  pleasanter.  Now,  while  there  is 
time,  I  must  describe  those  three  days,  for  who  could  write 
on  the  wet  deck  of  a  steamboat,  amid  all  the  sights  and 
6mells  which  a  sea-voyage  creates  ?  Description  does  not 
flourish  when  the  bones  are  sore  with  lying  on  planks  and 
the  body  shivering  like  an  aspen-leaf  with  cold. 

About  the  old  town  of  Civita  Vecchia  there  is  not  much 


382  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

to  be  said,  except  that  it  has  the  same  little  harbor  which 
Trajan  dug  for  it  and  is  as  dirty  and  disagreeable  as  a  town 
can  well  be.  We  saw  nothing  except  a  little  church  and 
the  prison-yard  full  of  criminals  where  the  celebrated  ban- 
dit Gasparoni  has  been  now  confined  for  eight  years. 

The  Neapolitan  company's  boat,  Mongibello,  was  adver- 
tised to  leave  the  12th ;  so,  after  procuring  our  passports, 
we  went  to  the  office  to  take  passage.  The  official,  how- 
ever, refused  to  give  us  tickets  for  the  third  place,  because, 
forsooth,  we  were  not  servants  or  common  laborers,  and 
words  were  wasted  in  trying  to  convince  him  that  it  would 
make  no  difference.  As  the  second-cabin  fare  was  nearly 
three  times  as  high  and  entirely  too  dear  for  us,  we  went  to 
the  office  of  the  Tuscan  company,  whose  boat  was  to  leave 
in  two  days.  Through  the  influence  of  an  Italian  gentle- 
man, secretary  to  Bartolini,  the  American  consul,  whom  we 
met,  they  agreed  to  take  us  for  forty-five  francs  on  deck, 
the  price  of  the  Neapolitan  boat  being  thirty. 

Rather  than  stay  two  days  longer  in  the  dull  town,  we 
went  again  to  the  latter  company's  office,  and  offered  them 
forty-five  francs  to  go  that  day  in  their  boat.  This  removed 
the  former  scruples,  and  tickets  were  immediately  made 
out.  After  a  plentiful  dinner  at  the  albergo  to  prepare  our- 
selves for  the  exposure,  we  filled  our  pockets  with  a  supply 
of  bread,  cheese  and  figs  for  the  voyage.  We  then  en- 
gaged a  boatman,  who  agreed  to  row  us  out  to  the  steamer 
for  two  pauls;  but  after  he  had  us  on  board  and  an  oar's 
length  from  the  quay,  he  said  two  pauls  apiece  was  his  bar- 
gain. I  instantly  refused,  and,  summoning  the  best  Italian 
I  could  command,  explained  our  agreement ;  but  he  still 
persisted  in  demanding  double  price.  The  dispute  soon 
drew  a  number  of  persons  to  the  quay,  some  of  whom,  be- 
ing boatmen,  sided  with  him.  Finding  he  had  us  safe  in 
his  boat,  his  manner  was  exceedingly  calm  and  polite. 
He  contradicted  me  with  a  "  Pardon,  signor!"  accompany- 
ing the  words  with  a  low  bow  and  a  graceful  lift  of  his 


A  HARD  BED.  383 

scarlet  cap,  and  replied  to  my  indignant  accusations  in  the 
softest  and  most  silvery-modulated  Roman  sentences.  I 
found,  at  last,  that  if  I  was  in  the  right  I  cut  the  worse 
figure  of  the  two,  and  therefore  put  an  end  to  the  dispute 
by  desiring  him  to  row  on  at  his  own  price. 

The  hour  of  starting  was  two,  but  the  boat  lay  quietly 
in  the  harbor  till  four,  when  we  glided  out  on  the  open  sea 
and  went  northward,  with  the  blue  hills  of  Corsica  far  on 
our  left.  A  gorgeous  sunset  faded  away  over  the  water, 
and  the  moon  rose  behind  the  low  mountains  of  the  Italian 
coast.  Having  found  a  warm  and  sheltered  place  near  the 
chimney,  I  drew  my  beaver  farther  over  my  eyes  to  keep 
out  the  moonlight,  and  lay  down  on  the  deck  with  my 
knapsack  under  my  head.  It  was  a  hard  bed  indeed,  and 
the  first  time  I  attempted  to  rise  I  found  myself  glued  to  the 
floor  by  the  pitch  which  was  smeared  along  the  seams  of 
the  boards.  Our  fellow-sufferers  were  a  company  of  Swiss 
soldiers  going  home  after  a  four  years'  service  under  the 
king  of  Naples,  but  they  took  to  their  situation  more  easily 
than  we.  Sleep  was  next  to  impossible;  so  I  paced  the 
deck  occasionally,  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  sea  and  the 
dim  shores  on  either  side. 

A  little  after  midnight  we  passed  between  Elba  and 
Corsica,  The  dark  crags  of  Elba  rose  on  our  right  and 
the  bold  headlands  of  Napoleon's  isle  stood  opposite,  at  per- 
haps twenty  miles'  distance.  There  was  something  dreary 
and  mysterious  in  the  whole  scene,  viewed  at  such  a  time ; 
the  grandeur  of  his  career  who  was  born  on  one  and  exiled 
to  the  other  gave  it  a  strange  and  thrilling  interest. 

We  made  the  lighthouse  before  the  harbor  of  Leghorn 
at  dawn,  and  by  sunrise  were  anchored  within  the  mole.  I 
sat  on  the  deck  the  whole  day  watching  the  picturesque 
vessels  that  skimmed  about  with  their  lateen  sails  and  won- 
dering how  soon  the  sailors  on  the  deck  of  a  Boston  brig 
anchored  near  us  would  see  my  distant  country.  Leaving 
at  four  o'clock,  we  dashed  away  along  the  mountain-coast 


384  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  Carrara  at  a  rapid  rate.  The  wind  was  strong  and  cold, 
but  I  lay  down  behind  the  boiler,  and,  though  the  boards 
were  as  hard  as  ever,  slept  two  or  three  hours.  When  I 
awoke,  at  half-past  two  in  the  morning,  after  a  short  rest, 
Genoa  was  close  at  hand.  We  glided  between  the  two  re- 
volving lights  on  the  mole  into  the  harbor,  with  the  amphi- 
theatre on  which  the  superb  city  sits  dark  and  silent  around 
us.  It  began  raining  soon,  the  engine-fire  sank  down,  and, 
as  there  was  no  place  of  shelter,  we  were  shortly  wet  to 
the  skin. 

How  long  those  dreary  hours  seemed  till  the  dawn  came ! 
All  was  cold  and  rainy  and  dark,  and  we  waited  in  a  kind 
of  torpid  misery  for  daylight.  The  entire  day  I  passed  sit- 
ting in  a  coil  of  rope  under  the  stern  of  the  cabin,  and  even 
the  beauties  of  the  glorious  city  scarce  affected  me.  We 
lay  opposite  the  Doria  palace,  and  the  constellation  of  vil- 
las and  towers  still  glittered  along  the  hills  ;  but  who  with 
his  teeth  chattering  and  limbs  numb  and  damp  could  feel 
pleasure  in  looking  on  Elysium  itself? 

We  got  under  way  again  at  three  o'clock.  The  rain  very 
soon  hid  the  coast  from  view,  and  the  waves  pitched  our 
boat  about  in  a  manner  not  at  all  pleasant.  I  soon  experi- 
enced sea-sickness  in  all  its  horrors.  We  had  accidentally  made 
the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the  Neapolitan  sailors,  who  had 
been  in  America.  He  was  one  of  those  rough,  honest  na- 
tures I  like  to  meet  with ;  their  blunt  kindness  is  better 
than  refined  and  oily-tongued  suavity.  As  we  were  stand- 
ing by  the  chimney  reflecting  dolefully  how  we  should  pass 
the  coming  night  he  came  up  and  said,  "  I  am  in  trouble 
about  you  poor  fellows.  I  don't  think  I  shall  sleep  three 
hours  to-night,  to  think  of  vou.  I  shall  tell  all  the  cabin 
they  shall  give  you  beds,  because  they  shall  see  you  are  gen- 
tlemen." Whether  he  did  so  or  the  officers  were  moved  by 
spontaneous  commiseration,  we  knew  not,  but  in  half  an 
hour  a  servant  beckoned  us  into  the  cabin,  and  berths  were 
given  us.   I  turned  in  with  a  feeling  of  relief  not  easily  im- 


THE  BAY  OF  MARSEILLES.  385 

agined,  and  forgave  the  fleas  willingly,  in  the  comfort  of  a 
shelter  from  the  storm. 

When  I  awoke,  it  was  broad  day.  A  fresh  breeze  was 
drying  the  deck,  and  the  sun  was  half  visible  among  break- 
ing clouds.  We  had  just  passed  the  Isle  of  the  Titan — 
one  of  the  Isles  des  Hyeres— and  the  Bay  of  Toulon  opened 
on  our  right.  It  was  a  rugged,  rocky  coast,  but  the  hills 
of  sunny  Provence  rose  beyond.  The  sailor  came  up  with 
a  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his  rough  countenance,  and  said, 
"  You  did  sleep  better,  I  think  ?  I  did  tell  them  all,"  coup- 
line  his  assertion  with  a  round  curse  on  the  officers. 

We  ran  along  beside  the  brown,  bare  crags  till  nearly 
noon,  when  we  reached  the  eastern  point  of  the  Bay  of 
Marseilles.  A  group  of  small  islands  formed  of  bare  rocks 
rising  in  precipices  three  or  four  hundred  feet  high  guards 
the  point.  On  turning  into  the  gulf  we  saw  on  the  left  the 
rocky  islands  of  Pomegues  and  If,  with  the  castle  crowning 
the  latter  in  which  Mirabeau  was  confined.  The  ranges  of 
hills  which  rose  around  the  great  bay  were  spotted  and 
sprinkled  over  with  thousands  of  the  country  cottages  of 
the  Marseilles  merchants,  called  bastides ;  the  city  itself 
was  hidden  from  view.  We  saw,  apparently,  the  whole  bay, 
but  there  was  no  crowd  of  vessels  such  as  would  befit  a  great 
seaport ;  a  few  spires  peeping  over  a  hill,  with  some  fortifi- 
cations, were  all  that  was  visible.  At  length  we  turned  sud- 
denly aside  and  entered  a  narrow  strait  between  two  forts. 
Immediately  a  broad  harbor  opened  before  us,  locked  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  hills  on  which  the  city  stands  ;  it  was  cov- 
ered with  vessels  of  all  nations.  On  leaving  the  boat  we 
rowed  past  the  Aristides,  bearing  the  blue  cross  of  Greece, 
and  I  searched  eagerly,  and  found  among  the  crowded  masts 
the  starry  banner  of  America. 

I  have  rambled  through  all  the  principal  parts  of  Mar- 
seilles, and  am  very  favorably  impressed  with  its  appear- 
ance. Its  cleanliness  and  the  air  of  life  and  business  which 
marks  the  streets  are  the  more  pleasant  after  coming  from 

25 


386  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  dirty  and  depopulated  Italian  cities.  The  broad  ave- 
nues lined  with  trees  which  traverse  its  whole  length  must 
be  delightful  in  summer.  I  am  often  reminded  by  its  spa- 
cious and  crowded  thoroughfares  of  our  American  cities. 
Although  founded  by  the  Phoceans  three  thousand  years 
ago,  it  has  scarcely  an  edifice  of  greater  antiquity  than 
three  or  four  centuries,  and  the  tourist  must  content  him- 
self with  wandering  through  the  narrow  streets  of  the  old 
town,  observing  the  Provencal  costumes,  or  strolling  among 
Turks  and  Moors  on  the  Quai  d'Orleans. 

We  have  been  detained  here  a  day  longer  than  was  nec- 
essary, owing  to  some  misunderstanding  about  the  passports. 
This  has  not  been  favorable  to  our  reduced  circumstances, 
for  we  have  now  but  twenty  francs  each  left  to  take  us  to 
Paris.  Our  boots  too,  after  serving  us  so  long,  begin  to 
show  signs  of  failing  in  this  hour  of  adversity.  Although 
we  are  somewhat  accustomed  to  such  circumstances,  I  can- 
not help  shrinking  when  I  think  of  the  solitary  napoleon 
and  the  five  hundred  miles  to  be  passed.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  coin  will  do  as  much  as  its  great  namesake,  and  achieve 
for  us  a  Marengo  in  the  war  with  Fate. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

PILGRIMAGE   TO  VAUCLUSE   AND  JOURNEY  UP  THE  RHONE. 

We  left  Marseilles  about  nine  o'clock  on  a  dull,  rainy 
morning  for  Avignon  and  the  Rhone,  intending  to  take  in 
our  way  the  glen  of  Vaucluse.  The  dirty  fau bo urgs  stretch 
out  along  the  road  for  a  great  distance,  and  we  trudged 
through  them,  past  foundries,  furnaces  and  manufactories, 
considerably  disheartened  with  the  prospect.  We  wound 
among  the  bleak  stony  hills,  continually  ascending,  for 
nearly  three  hours.     Great  numbers  of  cabarets  frequented 


A  RAMBLE   IN   AIX.  387 

by  the  common  people  lined  the  roads,  and  we  met  contin- 
ually trains  of  heavy-laden  wagons  drawn  by  large  mules. 
The  country  is  very  wild  and  barren,  and  would  have  been 
tiresome  except  for  the  pine  groves  with  their  beautiful 
green  foliage.  We  got  something  to  eat  with  difficulty  at 
an  inn,  for  the  people  spoke  nothing  but  the  Provencal  dia- 
lect, and  the  place  was  so  cold  and  cheerless  we  were  glad 
to  go  out  again  into  the  storm.  It  mattered  little  to  us 
that  we  heard  the  language  in  which  the  gay  troubadours 
of  King  Rene  sung  their  songs  of  love.  We  thought  more 
of  our  dripping  clothes  and  numb,  cold  limbs,  and  would 
have  been  glad  to  hear,  instead,  the  strong,  hearty  German 
tongue,  full  of  warmth  and  kindly  sympathy  for  the  stranger. 
The  wind  swept  drearily  among  the  hills ;  black,  gusty 
clouds  covered  the  sky  and  the  incessant  rain  filled  the 
road  with  muddy  pools.  We  looked  at  the  country  chateaux, 
so  comfortable  in  the  midst  of  their  sheltering  poplars,  with 
a  sigh,  and  thought  of  homes  afar  off  whose  doors  were  never 
closed  to  us. 

This  was  all  forgotten  when  we  reached  Aix  and  the 
hostess  of  the  Cafe  d'Afrique  filled  her  little  stove  with  fresh 
coal  and  hung  our  wet  garments  around  it,  while  her  daugh- 
ter, a  pale-faced  crippled  child,  smiled  kindly  on  us  and 
tried  to  talk  with  us  in  French.     Putting  on  our  damp, 

heavy  coats  again,  B and  I  rambled  through  the  streets 

while  our  frugal  supper  was  preparing.  We  saw  the  statue 
of  the  bon  roi  Rene,  who  held  at  Aix  his  court  of  shepherds 
and  troubadours,  the  dark  cathedral  of  St.  Sauveur,  the  an- 
cient walls  and  battlements,  and  gazed  down  the  valley  at  the 
dark  precipitous  mass  of  Mont  St.  Victor,  at  whose  base 
Marius  obtained  a  splendid  victory  over  the  barbarians. 

After  leaving  next  morning,  we  saw  at  some  distance  to 
the  south  the  enormous  aqueduct  now  being  erected  for  the 
canal  from  the  Rhone  to  Marseilles.  The  shallow,  elevated 
valleys  we  passed  in  the  forenoon's  walk  were  stony  and 
barren,  but  covered  with  large  orchards  of  almond  trees, 


388  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  fruit  of  which  forms  a  considerable  article  of  export. 
This  district  borders  on  the  desert  of  the  Crau,  a  vast  plain 
of  stones  reaching  to  the  mouth  of  the  Rhone  and  almost 
entirely  uninhabited.  We  caught  occasional  glimpses  of  its 
sealike  waste  between  the  summits  of  the  hills.  At  length, 
after  threading  a  high  ascent,  we  saw  the  valley  of  the 
Durance  suddenly  below  us.  The  sun,  breaking  through 
the  clouds,  shone  on  the  mountain-wall  which  stood  on  the 
opposite  side,  touching  with  his  glow  the  bare  and  rocky 
precipices  that  frowned  far  above  the  stream.  Descending 
to  the  valley,  we  followed  its  course  toward  the  Rhone  with 
the  ruins  of  feudal  bourgs  crowning  the  crags  above  us. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  reached  the  village  of  Senas  tired 
with  the  day's  march.  A  landlord  standing  in  his  door,  on 
the  lookout  for  customers,  invited  us  to  enter  in  a  manner 
so  polite  and  pressing  we  could  not  choose  but  do  so. 
This  is  a  universal  custom  with  the  country  innkeepers.  In 
a  little  village  which  we  passed  toward  evening  there  was  a 
tavern  with  the  sign  "  The  Mother  of  Soldiers."  A  portly 
woman  Avhose  face  beamed  with  kindness  and  cheerfulness 
stood  in  the  door  and  invited  us  to  stop  there  for  the  night. 
"  No,  mother,"  I  answered  ;  "  we  must  go  much  farther  to- 
day."— "  Go,  then,"  said  she,  "  with  good  luck,  my  children! 
A  pleasant  journey !" 

On  entering  the  inn  at  Senas  two  or  three  bronzed  soldiers 
were  sitting  by  the  table.  My  French  vocabulary  happen- 
ing to  give  out  in  the  middle  of  a  consultation  about  eggs 
and  onion-soup,  one  of  them  came  to  my  assistance  and  ad- 
dressed me  in  German.  He  was  from  Fulda,  in  Hesse- 
Cassel,  and  had  served  fifteen  years  in  Africa.  Two  other 
young  soldiers,  from  the  western  border  of  Germany,  came 
during  the  evening,  and  one  of  them,  being  partly  intoxi- 
cated, created  such  a  tumult  that  a  quarrel  arose  which 
ended  in  his  being  beaten  and  turned  out  of  the  house. 

"We  met  every  day  large  numbers  of  recruits,  in  com- 
panies of  one  or  two  hundred,  on  their  way  to  Marseilles  to 


PICTURESQUE  L'ISLE.  389 

embark  for  Algiers.  They  were  mostly  youths  from  sixteen 
to  twenty  years  of  age,  and  seemed  little  to  forebode  their 
probable  fate.  In  looking  on  their  fresh,  healthy  faces  and 
bounding  forms,  I  saw  also  a  dim  and  ghastly  vision  of 
bones  whitening  on  the  desert,  of  men  perishing  with  heat 
and  fever  or  stricken  down  by  the  aim  of  the  savage  Bed- 
ouin. 

Leaving  next  morning  at  daybreak,  we  walked  on  before 
breakfast  to  Orgon,  a  little  village  in  a  corner  of  the  cliffs 
which  border  the  Durance,  and  crossed  the  muddy  river  by 
a  suspension  bridge  a  short  distance  below,  to  Cavaillon, 
where  the  country-people  were  holding  a  great  market. 
From  this  place  a  road  led  across  the  meadow-land  to  L'Isle, 
six  miles  distant.  This  little  town  is  so  named  because  it  is 
situated  on  an  island  formed  by  the  crystal  Sorgues,  which 
flows  from  the  fountains  of  Vaucluse.  It  is  a  very  pic- 
turesque and  pretty  place.  Great  mill-wheels,  turning 
slowly  and  constantly,  stand  at  intervals  in  the  stream, 
whose  grassy  banks  are  now  as  green  as  in  springtime.  We 
walked  along  the  Sorgues — which  is  quite  as  beautiful  and 
worthy  to  be  sung  as  the  Clitumnus — to  the  end  of  the  vil- 
lage, to  take  the  road  to  Vaucluse.  Beside  its  banks  stands 
a  dirty  modern  "  Hotel  de  Petrarque  et  Laure."  Alas  that 
the  names  of  the  most  romantic  and  impassioned  lovers  of 
all  history  should  be  desecrated  to  a  sign-post  to  allure  gor- 
mandizing tourists ! 

The  bare  mountain  in  whose  heart  lies  the  poet's  solitude 
now  rose  before  us  at  the  foot  of  the  lofty  Mount  Ventoux, 
whose  summit  of  snows  extended  beyond.  We  left  the 
river,  and  walked  over  a  barren  plain  across  which  the  wind 
blew  most  drearily.  The  sky  was  rainy  and  dark,  and  com- 
pleted the  desolateness  of  the  scene,  which  in  nowise  height- 
ened our  anticipations  of  the  renowned  glen.  At  length  we 
rejoined  the  Sorgues  and  entered  a  little  green  valley  run- 
ning up  into  the  mountain.  The  narrowness  of  the  en- 
trance entirely  shut  out  the  wind,  and,  except  the  rolling 


390  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

of  the  waters  over  their  pebbly  bed,  all  was  still  and  lonely 
and  beautiful.  The  sides  of  the  dell  were  covered  with 
olive  trees,  and  a  narrow  strip  of  emerald  meadow  lay  at 
the  bottom.  It  grew  more  hidden  and  sequestered  as  we 
approached  the  little  village  of  Vaucluse.  Here  the  moun- 
tain towers  far  above,  and  precipices  of  gray  rock  many 
hundred  feet  high  hang  over  the  narrowing  glen.  On  a 
crag  over  the  village  are  the  remains  of  a  castle ;  the  slope 
below  this,  now  rugged  and  stony,  was  once  graced  by  the 
cottage  and  garden  of  Petrarch.  All  traces  of  them  have 
long  since  vanished,  but  a  simple  column  bearing  the  in- 
scription "  A  Petrarque  "  stands  beside  the  Sorgues. 

We  ascended  into  the  defile  by  a  path  among  the  rocks, 
overshadowed  by  olive  and  wild  fig  trees,  to  the  celebrated 
fountains  of  Vaucluse.  The  glen  seems  as  if  stuck  into  the 
mountain's  depths  by  one  blow  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  and 
just  at  the  end,  where  the  rod  might  have  rested  in  its 
downward  sweep,  is  the  fathomless  well  whose  overbrim- 
ming fulness  gives  birth  to  the  Sorgues.  We  climbed  up 
over  the  mossy  rocks  and  sat  down  in  the  grot  beside  the 
dark,  still  pool.  It  was  the  most  absolute  solitude.  The 
rocks  towered  above  and  over  us  to  the  height  of  six  hun- 
dred feet,  and  the  gray  walls  of  the  wild  glen  below  shut 
out  all  appearance  of  life.  I  leaned  over  the  rock  and 
drank  of  the  blue  crystal  that  grew  gradually  darker  to- 
ward the  centre  till  it  became  a  mirror  and  gave  back  a 
perfect  reflection  of  the  crags  above  it.  There  was  no  bub- 
bling, no  gushing  up  from  its  deep  bosom,  but  the  wealth 
of  sparkling  waters  continually  welled  over  as  from  a  too- 
full  goblet. 

It  was  with  actual  sorrow  that  I  turned  away  from  the 
silent  spot.  I  never  visited  a  place  to  which  the  fancy 
clung  more  suddenly  and  fondly.  There  is  something  holy 
in  its  solitude,  making  one  envy  Petrarch  the  years  of  calm 
and  unsullied  enjoyment  which  blessed  him  there.  As 
some  persons  whom  we  pass  as  strangers  strike  a  hidden 


RAINY  GREETING.  391 

chord  in  our  spirits,  compelling  a  silent  sympathy  with 
them,  so  some  landscapes  have  a  character  of  beauty  which 
harmonizes  thrillingly  with  the  mood  in  which  we  look 
upon  them,  till  we  forget  admiration  in  the  glow  of  spon- 
taneous attachment.  They  seem  like  abodes  of  the  Beauti- 
ful which  the  soul  in  its  wanderings  long  ago  visited,  and 
now  recognizes  and  loves  as  the  home  of  a  forgotten  dream. 
It  was  thus  I  felt  by  the  fountains  of  Vaucluse ;  sadly  and 
with  weary  steps  I  turned  away,  leaving  its  loneliness  un- 
broken as  before. 

We  returned  over  the  plain  in  the  wind,  under  the 
gloomy  sky,  passed  L'Isle  at  dusk,  and  after  walking  an 
hour  with  a  rain  following  close  behind  us  stopped  at  an 
auberge  in  Le  Thor,  where  we  rested  our  tired  frames  and 
broke  our  long  day's  fasting.  We  were  greeted  in  the 
morning  with  a  dismal  rain  and  wet  roads  as  we  began  the 
inarch.  After  a  time,  however,  it  poured  down  in  such 
torrents  that  we  were  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  a  remise  by 
the  roadside,  where  a  good  woman  who  addressed  us  in  the 
unintelligible  Provencal  kindled  up  a  blazing  fire.  On 
climbing  a  long  hill  when  the  storm  had  abated,  we  ex- 
perienced a  delightful  surprise.  Below  us  lay  the  broad 
valley  of  the  Rhone,  with  its  meadows  looking  fresh  and 
spring-like  after  the  rain.  The  clouds  were  breaking  away  ; 
clear  blue  sky  was  visible  over  Avignon,  and  a  belt  of  sun- 
light lay  warmly  along  the  mountains  of  Languedoc. 
Many  villages  with  their  tall  picturesque  towers  dotted  the 
landscape,  and  the  groves  of  green  olive  enlivened  the  bar- 
renness of  winter. 

Two  or  three  hours'  walk  over  the  plain  by  a  road 
fringed  with  willows  brought  us  to  the  gates  of  Avignon. 
We  walked  around  its  picturesque  turreted  wall  and  ram- 
bled through  its  narrow  streets,  washed  here  and  there  by 
streams  which  turn  the  old  mill-wheels  lazily  around.  We 
climbed  up  to  the  massive  palace  which  overlooks  the  city 
from  its  craggy  seat,  attesting  the  splendor  it  enjoyed  when 


392  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

for  thirty  years  the  papal  court  was  held  there  and  the 
gray,  weatherbeaten,  irregular  building,  resembling  a  pile 
of  precipitous  rocks,  echoed  with  the  revels  of  licentious 
prelates.  •  We  could  not  enter  to  learn  the  terrible  secrets 
of  the  Inquisition  here  unveiled,  but  we  looked  up  at  the 
tower  from  which  the  captive  Rienzi  was  liberated  at  the 
intercession  of  Petrarch. 

After  leaving  Avignon,  we  took  the  road  up  the  Ehone 
for  Lyons,  turning  our  backs  upon  the  rainy  south.  We 
reached  the  village  of  Sorgues  by  dusk,  and  accepted  the 
invitation  of  an  old  dame  to  lodge  at  her  inn,  which  proved 
to  be  a  blacksmith's  shop.  It  was  nevertheless  clean  and 
comfortable,  and  we  sat  down  in  one  corner,  out  of  the 
reach  of  the  shower  of  sparks  which  flew  hissing  from  a 
red-hot  horseshoe  that  the  smith  and  his  apprentice  were 
hammering.  A  Piedmontese  pedler  who  carried  the  "  Song 
of  the  Holy  St.  Philomene  "  to  sell  among  the  peasants 
came  in  directly,  and  bargained  for  a  sleep  on  some  hay  for 
two  sous.  For  a  bed  in  the  loft  over  the  shop  we  were 
charged  five  sous  each,  which,  with  seven  sous  for  supper, 
made  our  expenses  for  the  night  about  eleven  cents.  Our 
circumstances  demanded  the  greatest  economy,  and  we 
began  to  fear  whether  even  this  spare  allowance  would 
enable  us  to  reach  Lyons.  Owing  to  a  day's  delay  in  Mar- 
seilles, we  had  left  that  city  with  but  fifteen  francs  each ; 
the  incessant  storms  of  winter  and  the  worn-out  state  of 
our  shoes,  which  were  no  longer  proof  against  water  or 
mud,  prolonged  our  journey  considerably  ;  so  that  by  start- 
ing before  dawn  and  walking  till  dark  we  were  only  able  to 
make  thirty  miles  a  day.  We  could  always  procure  beds 
for  five  sous,  and,  as  in  the  country  inns  one  is  only  charged 
for  what  he  chooses  to  order,  our  frugal  suppers  cost  us  but 
little.  We  purchased  bread  and  cheese  in  the  villages,  and 
made  our  breakfasts  and  dinners  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside 
or  climbed  the  rocks  and  sat  down  by  the  source  of  some 
trickling  rill.     This  simple  fare  had  an  excellent  relish, 


HUMAN   SYMPATHY.  393 

and,  although  we  walked  in  wet  clothes  from  morning  till 
night,  often  lying  down  on  the  damp,  cold  earth  to  rest,  our 
health  was  never  affected- 
It  is  worth  all  the  toil  and  privation  we  have  as  yet  un- 
dergone to  gain  from  actual  experience  the  blessed  knowl- 
edge that  man  always  retains  a  kindness  and  brotherly 
sympathy  toward  his  fellow — that  under  all  the  weight  of 
vice  and  misery  which  a  grinding  oppression  of  soul  and 
body  brings  on  the  laborers  of  earth  there  still  remain 
many  bright  tokens  of  a  better  nature.  Among  the  starv- 
ing mountaineers  of  the  Hartz,  the  degraded  peasantry  of 
Bohemia,  the  savage  contadini  of  Central  Italy  or  the 
dwellers  on  the  hills  of  Provence  and  beside  the  swift 
Rhone  we  almost  invariably  found  kind,  honest  hearts  and 
an  aspiration  for  something  better,  betokening  the  con- 
sciousness that  such  brute-like,  obedient  existence  was  not 
their  proper  destiny.  We  found  few  so  hardened  as  to  be 
insensible  to  a  kind  look  or  a  friendly  word,  and  nothing 
made  us  forget  w7e  were  among  strangers  so  much  as  the 
many  tokens  of  sympathy  which  met  us  when  least  looked 
for.  A  young  Englishman  who  had  travelled  on  foot  from 
Geneva  to  Rome,  enduring  many  privations  on  account  of 
his  reduced  circumstances,  said  to  me,  while  speaking  on 
this  subject,  "A  single  word  of  kindness  from  a  stranger 
would  make  my  heart  warm  and  my  spirits  cheerful  for  days 
afterward."  There  is  not  so  much  evil  in  man  as  men  would 
have  us  believe,  and  it  is  a  happy  comfort  to  know  and  feel 
this. 

Leaving  our  little  inn  before  daybreak  next  morning,  we 
crossed  the  Sorgues,  grown  muddy  since  its  infancy  at  Vau- 
cluse,  like  many  a  young  soul  whose  mountain-purity  goes 
out  into  the  soiling  world  and  becomes  sullied  for  ever. 
The  road  passed  over  broad,  barren  ranges  of  hills,  and  the 
landscape  was  destitute  of  all  interest  till  we  approached 
Orange.  This  city  is  built  at  the  foot  of  a  rocky  height,  a 
great  scpiare  projection  of  which   seemed  to  stand  in  its 


394  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

midst.  As  we  approached  nearer,  however,  arches  and  lines 
of  cornice  could  be  discerned,  and  we  recognized  it  as  the 
celebrated  amphitheatre — one  of  the  grandest  Roman  relics 
in  the  South  of  France.  I  stood  at  the  foot  of  this  great 
fabric  and  gazed  up  at  it  in  astonishment.  The  exterior  wall, 
three  hundred  and  thirty-four  feet  in  length  and  rising  to 
the  height  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-one  feet,  is  still  in 
excellent  preservation,  and  through  its  rows  of  solid  arches 
one  looks  on  the  broken  ranges  of  seats  within.  On  the 
crag  above,  and  looking  as  if  about  to  topple  down  on  it, 
is  a  massive  fragment  of  the  fortress  of  the  princes  of  Or- 
ange, razed  by  Louis  XIV. 

Passing  through  the  city,  we  came  to  the  beautiful  Ro- 
man triumphal  arch,  which  to  my  eye  is  a  finer  structure 
than  that  of  Constantine  at  Rome.  It  is  built  of  a  rich 
yellow  marble  and  highly  ornamented  with  sculptured  tro- 
phies. From  the  barbaric  shields  and  the  letters  "  Mario," 
still  remaining,  it  has  been  supposed  to  commemorate  the 
victory  of  Marius  over  the  barbarians  near  Aix.  A  frieze 
running  along  the  top  on  each  side  shows,  although  broken 
and  much  defaced  by  the  weather,  the  life  and  action  which 
once  marked  the  struggling  figures.  These  Roman  ruins 
scattered  through  Provence  and  Languedoc,  though  infe- 
rior in  historical  interest,  equal  in  architectural  beauty  the 
greater  part  of  those  in  the  Eternal  City  itself. 

The  rest  of  the  day  the  road  was  monotonous,  though 
varied  somewhat  by  the  tall  crags  of  Mornas  and  Mont- 
dragon,  towering  over  the  villages  of  the  same  name.  Night 
came  on  as  the  rock  of  Pierrelatte,  at  whose  foot  we  were  to 
sleep,  appeared  in  the  distance,  rising  like  a  Gibraltar  from 
the  plain,  and  we  only  reached  it  in  time  to  escape  the  rain 
that  came  down  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 

Next  day  we  passed  several  companies  of  soldiers  on 
their  way  to  Africa.  One  of  them  was  accompanied  by  a 
young  girl,  apparently  the  wife  of  the  recruit  by  whose  side 
she  was  marching.     She  wore  the  tight  blue  jacket  of  the 


VALENCE.  395 

troop,  and  a  red  skirt,  reaching  to  the  knees,  over  her  sol- 
dier pantaloons,  while  her  pretty  face  showed  to  advantage 
beneath  a  small  military  cap.  It  was  a  Fille  du  Regiment 
in  real  life.  Near  Montelimart  we  lost  sight  of  Mont  Ven- 
toux,  whose  gleaming  white  crest  had  been  visible  all  the 
way  from  Vaucluse,  and  passed  along  the  base  of  a  range 
of  hills  running  near  to  the  river.  So  went  our  march 
without  particular  incident  till  we  bivouacked  for  the  night 
among  a  company  of  soldiers  in  the  little  village  of  Loriol. 

Leaving  at  six  o'clock,  wakened  by  the  trumpets  which 
called  up  the  soldiery  to  their  day's  march,  we  reached  the 
river  Drome  at  dawn,  and  from  the  bridge  over  its  rapid 
current  gazed  at  the  dim,  ash-colored  masses  of  the  Alps 
of  Dauphine,  piled  along  the  sky,  far  up  the  valley.  The 
coming  of  morn  threw  a  yellow  glow  along  their  snowy 
sides,  and  lighted  up  here  and  there  a  flashing  glacier.  The 
peasantry  were  already  up  and  at  work,  and  caravans  of 
pack-wagons  rumbled  along  in  the  morning  twilight.  We 
trudged  on  with  them,  and  by  breakfast-time  had  made 
some  distance  of  the  way  to  Valence.  The  road,  which  does 
not  approach  the  Rhone,  is  devoid  of  interest  and  tiresome, 
though  under  a  summer  sky,  when  the  bare  vine-hills  are 
latticed  over  with  green  and  the  fruit  trees  covered  with 
blossoms  and  foliage,  it  might  be  a  scene  of  great  beauty. 

Valence,  which  we  reached  toward  noon,  is  a  common- 
place city  on  the  Rhone,  and  my  only  reasons  for  traversing  its 
dirty  streets  in  preference  to  taking  the  road,  which  passes 
without  the  walls,  were  to  get  something  for  dinner  and  be- 
cause it  might  have  been  the  birthplace  of  Aymer  de  Va- 
lence, the  valorous  crusader  chronicled  in  Ivanhoe,  whose 
tomb  I  had  seen  in  Westminster  Abbey.  One  of  the  streets 
—which  was  marked  "  Rue  Bayard  "—shows  that  my  val- 
iant namesake  the  knight  without  fear  and  reproach  is 
still  remembered  in  his  native  province.  The  ruins  of 
his  chateau  are  still  standing  among  the  Alps  near  Gre- 
noble. 


396  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

In  the  afternoon  we  crossed  the  Isere,  a  swift,  muddy 
river  which  rises  among  the  Alps  of  Dauphine.  We  saw 
their  icy  range,  among  which  is  the  desert  solitude  of  the 
Grand  Chartreuse,  far  up  the  valley  ;  but  the  thick  atmo- 
sphere hid  the  mighty  Mont  Blanc,  whose  cloudy  outline, 
eighty  miles  distant  in  a  "  bee-line,"  is  visible  in  fair 
weather.  At  Tain  we  came  upon  the  Rhone  again,  and 
walked  along  the  base  of  the  hills  which  contract  its  cur- 
rent. Here  I  should  call  it  beautiful.  The  scenery  has  a 
wildness  that  approaches  to  that  of  the  Rhine.  Rocky, 
castellated  heights  frown  over  the  rushing  waters,  which 
have  something  of  the  majesty  of  their  "  exulting  and 
abounding  rival."  Winding  around  the  curving  hills,  the 
scene  is  constantly  varied,  and  the  little  willowed  islets 
clasped  in  the  embrace  of  the  stream  mingle  a  trait  of  soft- 
ened beauty  with  its  sterner  character. 

After  passing  the  night  at  a  village  on  its  banks,  we  left 
it  again  at  St.  Vallier  the  next  morning.  At  sunset  the 
spires  of  Vienne  were  visible,  and  the  lofty  Mont  Pilas,  the 
snows  of  whose  riven  summits  feed  the  springs  of  the  Loire 
on  its  western  side,  stretched  majestically  along  the  oppo- 
site bank  of  the  Rhone.  In  a  meadow  near  Vienne  stands 
a  curious  Roman  obelisk  seventy-six  feet  in  height.  The 
base  is  composed  of  four  pillars  connected  by  arches,  and 
the  whole  structure  has  a  barbaric  air  compared  with  the 
more  elegant  monuments  of  Orange  and  Nismes.  Vienne, 
which  is  mentioned  by  several  of  the  Roman  historians  un- 
der its  present  name,  was  the  capital  of  the  Allobroges,  and 
I  looked  upon  it  with  a  new  and  strange  interest  on  calling 
to  mind  my  schoolboy-days,  when  I  had  become  familiar 
with  that  Avarlike  race  in  toiling  over  the  pages  of  Csesar. 
We  walked  in  the  mud  and  darkness  for  what  seemed  a 
great  distance,  and  finally  took  shelter  in  a  little  inn  at  the 
northern  end  of  the  city.  Two  Belgian  soldiers  coming 
from  Africa  were  already  quartered  there,  and  we  listened 


REDUCED  CIRCUMSTANCES.  397 

to  their  tales  of  the  Arab  and  the  desert  while  supper  was 
preparing. 

The  morning  of  the  25th  was  dull  and  rainy.  The  road, 
very  muddy  and  unpleasant,  led  over  the  hills,  avoiding 
the  westward  curve  of  the  Rhone,  directly  toward  Lyons. 
About  noon  we  came  in  sight  of  the  broad  valley  in  which 
the  Rhone  first  clasps  his  Burgundian  bride  the  Saone,  and 
a  cloud  of  impenetrable  coal-smoke  showed  us  the  location 
of  Lyons.  A  nearer  approach  revealed  a  large  flat  dome, 
and  some  ranges  of  tall  buildings  near  the  river.  We  soon 
entered  the  suburb  of  La  Guillotiere,  which  has  sprung  up 
on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Rhone.  Notwithstanding  our 
clothes  were  like  sponges,  our  boots  entirely  worn  out  and 
our  bodies  somewhat  thin  with  nine  days'  exposure  to  the 
wintry  storms  in  walking  two  hundred  and  forty  miles,  we 
entered  Lyons  with  suspense  and  anxiety.  But  one  franc 
apiece  remained  out  of  the  fifteen  with  which  we  left  Mar- 
seilles. B wrote  home  some  time  ago,  directing  a  re- 
mittance to  be  forwarded  to  a  merchant  at  Paris  to  whom 
he  had  a  letter  of  introduction,  and  in  the  hope  that  this 
had  arrived  he  determined  to  enclose  the  letter  in  a  note, 
stating  our  circumstances,  and  requesting  him  to  forward  a 
part  of  the  remittance  to  Lyons.  We  had  then  to  wait  at 
least  four  days.  People  are  suspicious  and  mistrustful  in 
cities ;  and  if  no  relief  should  come,  what  was  to  be  done  ? 

After  wading  through  the  mud  of  the  suburbs,  we  chose 
a  common-looking  inn  near  the  river,  as  the  comfort  of  our 
stay  depended  wholly  on  the  kindness  of  our  hosts,  and  we 
hoped  to  find  more  sympathy  among  the  laboring  classes. 
We  engaged  lodgings  for  four  or  five  days.  After  dinner 
the  letter  was  despatched,  and  we  wandered  about  through 
the  dark,  dirty  city  until  night.  Our  landlord,  Monsieur 
Ferrand,  was  a  rough,  vigorous  man  with  a  gloomy,  discon- 
tented expression.  His  words  were  few  and  blunt,  but  a 
certain  restlessness  of  manner  and  a  secret  flashing  of  his 
cold,  forbidding  eye  betrayed  to  me  some  strong  hidden  ex- 


398  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

citement.  Madame  Ferrand  was  kind  and  talkative,  though 
passionate ;  but  the  appearance  of  the  place  gave  me  an 
unfavorable  impression  which  was  heightened  by  the  thought 
that  it  was  now  impossible  to  change  our  lodgings  until  re- 
lief should  arrive. 

When  bedtime  came,  a  ladder  was  placed  against  a  sort 
of  high  platform  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen ;  we  mounted, 
and  found  a  bed  concealed  from  the  view  of  those  below  by 
a  dusty  muslin  curtain.  We  lay  there  between  heaven  and 
earth — the  dirty  earth  of  the  brick  floor  and  the  sooty 
heaven  of  the  ceiling — listening  until  midnight  to  the  bois- 
terous songs  and  loud,  angry  disputes  in  the  room  adjoining. 
Thus  ended  our  first  day  in  Lyons. 

Five  weary  days,  each  of  them  containing  a  month  of 
torturing  suspense,  have  since  passed.  Our  lodging-place 
grew  so  unpleasant  that  we  preferred  wandering  all  day 
through  the  misty,  muddy,  smoky  streets,  taking  refuge  in 
the  covered  bazaars  when  it  rained  heavily.  The  gloom  of 
everything  around  us  entirely  smothered  down  the  lightness 
of  heart  which  made  us  laugh  over  our  embarrassments  at 
Vienna.  When,  at  evening,  the  dull,  leaden  hue  of  the 
clouds  seemed  to  make  the  air  dark  and  cold  and  heavy, 
we  walked  beside  the  swollen  and  turbid  Rhone,  under  an 
avenue  of  leafless  trees,  the  damp  soil  chilling  our  feet  and 
striking  a  numbness  through  our  frames,  and  then  I  knew 
what  those  must  feel  who  have  no  hope  in  their  destitution, 
and  not  a  friend  in  all  the  great  world  who  is  not  wretched 
as  themselves.  I  prize  the  lesson,  though  the  price  of  it  is 
hard. 

"  This  morning,"  I  said  to  B ,  "  will  terminate  our 

suspense."  I  felt  cheerful  in  spite  of  myself,  and  this  was 
like  a  presentiment  of  coming  good  luck.  To  pass  the  time 
till  the  mail  arrived  we  climbed  to  the  chapel  of  Fourvieres, 
whose  walls  are  covered  with  votive  offerings  to  a  miracu- 
lous picture  of  the  Virgin.  But  at  the  precise  hour  we  were 
at  the  post-office.     What  an  intensity  of  suspense  can  be  felt 


CHANGED   FEELINGS.  399 

in  that  minute  while  the  clerk  is  looking  over  the  letters! 
And  what  a  lightning-like  shock  of  joy  when  it  did  come 
and  was  opened  with  eager,  trembling  hands,  revealing  the 
relief  we  had  almost  despaired  of!  The  city  did  not  seem 
less  gloomy,  for  that  was  impossible,  but  the  faces  of  the 
crowd,  which  had  appeared  cold  and  suspicious,  were  now 
kind  and  cheerful.  We  came  home  to  our  lodgings  with 
changed  feelings,  and  Madame  Ferrand  must  have  seen  the 
joy  in  our  faces,  for  she  greeted  us  with  an  unusual  smile. 

We  leave  to-morrow  morning  for  Chalons.  I  do  not  feel 
disposed  to  describe  Lyons  particularly,  although  I  have 
become  intimately  acquainted  with  every  part  of  it,  from 
Presqu'  isle  Perrache  to  Croix  Rousse.  I  know  the  contents 
of  every  shop  in  the  bazaar  and  the  passage  of  the  Hotel 
Dieu,  the  title  of  every  volume  in  the  bookstores  in  the 
Place  Belcour  and  the  countenance  of  every  boot-black  and 
apple-woman  on  the  quais  on  both  sides  of  the  river.  I 
have  walked  up  the  Saone  to  Pierre  Seise,  down  the  Rhone 
to  his  muddy  marriage,  climbed  the  heights  of  Fourvieres 
and  promenaded  in  the  Cours  Napoleon.  Why,  men  have 
been  presented  with  the  freedom  of  cities  when  they  have 
had  far  less  cause  for  such  an  honor  than  this ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

TRAVELLING   IN   BURGUNDY. — THE   MISERIES   OF   A   COUN- 
TRY  DILIGENCE. 

Paris,  Feb.  6,  1846. 
Every  letter  of  the  date  is  traced  with  an  emotion  of 
joy,  for  our  dreary  journey  is  over.  There  was  a  magic  in 
the  name  that  revived  us  during  a  long  journey,  and  now 
the  thought  that  it  is  all  over — that  these  walls  which  en- 
close  us  stand  in  the  heart  of  the  gay  city — seems  almost 


400  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

too  joyful  to  be  true.  Yesterday  I  marked  with  the 
whitest  chalk  on  the  blackest  of  all  tablets  to  make  the 
contrast  greater,  for  I  got  out  of  the  cramped  diligence  at 
the  Barriere  de  Charenton,  and  saw  before  me  in  the  morn- 
ing twilight  the  immense  gray  mass  of  Paris.  I  forgot  my 
numbed  and  stiffened  frame,  and  every  other  of  the  thou- 
sand disagreeable  feelings  of  diligence-travelling,  in  the 
pleasure  which  that  sight  afforded. 

We  arose  in  the  dark  at  Lyons,  and  after  bidding  adieu 
to  morose  Monsieur  Ferrand  traversed  the  silent  city  and 
found  our  way  in  the  mist  and  gloom  to  the  steamboat- 
landing  on  the  Saone.  The  waters  were  swollen  and  much 
above  their  usual  level,  which  was  favorable  for  the  boat 
as  long  as  there  was  room  enough  left  to  pass  under  the 
bridges.  After  a  great  deal  of  bustle  we  got  under  way, 
and  were  dashing  out  of  Lyons,  against  the  swift  current, 
before  daybreak.  We  passed  L'Isle  Barbe,  once  a  favorite 
residence  of  Charlemagne,  and  now  the  haunt  of  the  Lyon- 
naise  on  summer  holidays,  and,  going  under  the  suspension 
bridges  with  levelled  chimneys,  entered  the  picturesque 
hills  above,  which  are  covered  with  vineyards  nearly  to  the 
top.  The  villages  scattered  over  them  have  those  square- 
pointed  towers  which  give  such  a  quaintness  to  French 
country  scenery. 

The  stream  being  very  high,  the  meadows  on  both  sides 
were  deeply  overflowed.  To  avoid  the  strong  current  in 
the  centre,  our  boat  ran  along  the  banks,  pushing  aside  the 
alder  thickets  and  poplar  shoots;  in  passing  the  bridges 
the  pipes  were  always  brought  down  flat  on  the  deck.  A 
little  after  noon  we  passed  the  large  town  of  Macon,  the 
birthplace  of  the  poet  Lamartine.  The  valley  of  the 
Saone,  no  longer  enclosed  among  the  hills,  spread  out  to 
several  miles  in  width.  Along  the  west  lay  in  sunshine  the 
vine-mountains  of  Cote  d'Or,  and  among  the  dark  clouds 
in  the  eastern  sky  we  could  barely  distinguish  the  outline 
of  the  Jura.     The  waters  were  so  much  swollen  as.  to  cover 


STKOLLING  MUSICIANS.  401 

the  plain  for  two  or  three  miles.  We  seemed  to  be  sailing 
down  a  lake  with  rows  of  trees  springing  up  out  of  the 
water  and  houses  and  villages  lying  like  islands  on  its  sur- 
face. A  sunset  that  promised  better  weather  tinged  the 
broad  brown  flood  as  Chalons  came  in  sight,  looking  like  a 
city  built  along  the  shore  of  a  lake.  We  squeezed  through 
the  crowd  of  porters  and  diligence-men,  declining  their 
kind  offers,  and  hunted  quarters  to  suit  ourselves. 

We  left  Chalons  on  the  morning  of  the  1st  in  high  spir- 
its at  the  thought  that  there  were  but  little  more  than  two 
hundred  miles  between  us  and  Paris.  In  walking  over  the 
cold,  muddy  plain  we  passed  a  family  of  strolling  musi- 
cians who  were  sitting  on  a  heap  of  stones  by  the  roadside. 
An  ill-dressed,  ill-natured  man  and  woman,  each  carrying 
a  violin,  and  a  thin,  squalid  girl  with  a  tambourine,  com- 
posed the  group.  Their  faces  bore  that  unfeeling  stamp 
which  springs  from  depravity  and  degradation.  When  we 
had  walked  somewhat  more  than  a  mile,  we  overtook  a  lit- 
tle girl  who  was  crying  bitterly.  By  her  features,  from 
which  the  fresh  beauty  of  childhood  had  not  been  worn, 
and  the  steel  triangle  which  was  tied  to  her  belt,  we  knew 
she  belonged  to  the  family  we  had  passed.  Her  dress  was 
thin  and  ragged,  and  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes  but  ill  pro- 
tected her  feet  from  the  sharp  cold.  I  stopped  and  asked 
her  why  she  cried,  but  she  did  not  at  first  answer.  How- 
ever, by  questioning,  I  found  her  unfeeling  parents  had 
sent  her  on  without  food  ;  she  was  sobbing  with  hunger  and 
cold.  Our  pockets  were  full  of  bread  and  cheese  which  we 
had  bought  for  breakfast,  and  we  gave  her  half  a  loaf, 
which  stopped  her  tears  at  once.  She  looked  up  and 
thanked  us,  smiling,  and,  sitting  down  on  a  bank,  began 
to  eat  as  if  half  famished. 

The  physiognomy  of  this  region  is  very  singular.  It  ap- 
pears as  if  the  country  had  been  originally  a  vast  elevated 
plain  and  some  great  power  had  scooped  out  as  with  a  hand 
deep  circular  valleys  all  over  its  surface.    In  winding  along 


402  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

the  high  ridges  we  often  looked  down  on  either  side  into 
such  hollows,  several  miles  in  diameter,  and  sometimes  en- 
tirely covered  with  vineyards.  At  La  Rochepot,  a  quaint, 
antique  village  lying  in  the  bottom  of  one  of  these  dells,  we 
saw  the  finest  ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages  that  I  have  met  with 
in  France.  An  American  lady  had  spoken  to  me  of  it  in 
Rome,  and  I  believe  Willis  mentions  it  in  his  Pencillings ; 
but  it  is  not  described  in  the  guide-books,  nor  could  we  learn 
what  feudal  lord  had  ever  dwelt  in  its  halls.  It  covers  the 
summit  of  a  stately  rock  at  whose  foot  the  village  is  crouch- 
ed, and  the  green  ivy  climbs  up  to  the  very  top  of  its  gray 
towers. 

As  the  road  makes  a  wide  curve  around  the  side  of  the 
hill,  we  descended  to  the  village  by  the  nearer  footpath,  and 
passed  among  its  low  old  houses  with  their  pointed  gables 
and  mossy  roofs.  The  path  led  close  along  the  foot  of  the 
rock,  and  we  climbed  up  to  the  ruin  and  stood  in  its  grass- 
grown  court-yard.  Only  the  outer  walls  and  the  round 
towers  at  each  corner  are  left  remaining  ;  the  inner  part  has 
been  razed  to  the  ground,  and  where  proud  barons  once 
marshalled  their  vassals  the  villagers  now  play  their  holiday 
games.  On  one  side  several  Gothic  windows  are  left  stand- 
ing, perfect,  though  of  simple  construction,  and  in  the  tow- 
ers we  saw  many  fireplaces  and  doorways  of  richly-cut  stone 
which  looked  as  fresh  as  if  just  erected. 

We  passed  the  night  at  Ivry  (not  the  Ivry  which  gained 
Henri  Quatre  his  kingdom),  and  then  continued  our  march 
over  roads  which  I  can  only  compare  to  our  country  roads 
in  America  during  the  spring  thaw.  In  addition  to  this, 
the  rain  commenced  early  in  the  morning  and  continued  all 
day  ;  so  that  we  were  completely  wet  the  whole  time.  The 
plains,  too  high  and  cold  to  produce  wine,  were  varied  by 
forests  of  beech  and  oak,  and  the  population  was  thinly 
scattered  over  them  in  small  villages.  Travellers  generally 
complain  very  much  of  the  monotony  of  this  part  of  France, 


A  PITILESS  STOKM.  403 

and,  with  such  dreary  weather,  we  could  not  disagree  with 
them. 

As  the  day  wore  on  the  rain  increased  and  the  sky  put 
on  that  dull  gray  cast  which  denotes  a  lengthened  storm. 
We  were  fain  to  stop  at  nightfall,  but  there  was  no  inn  near 
at  hand — not  even  a  hovel  of  a  cabaret — in  Avhich  to  shelter 
ourselves,  and  on  inquiring  of  the  wagoners  we  received  the 
comforting  assurance  that  there  was  yet  a  league  and  a  half 
to  the  nearest  stopping-place.  On,  then,  we  went  with  the 
pitiless  storm  beating  in  our  faces  and  on  our  breasts,  till 
there  was  not  a  dry  spot  left  except  what  our  knapsacks 
covered.  We  could  not  have  been  more  completely  satu- 
rated if  we  had  been  dipped  in  the  Yonne.  At  length,  after 
two  hours  of  slipping  and  sliding  along  in  the  mud  and  wet 
and  darkness,  we  reached  Saulieu,  and  by  the  warm  fire 
thanked  our  stars  that  the  day's  dismal  tramp  was  over. 

By  good  or  bad  luck  (I  have  not  yet  decided  which),  a 
vehicle  was  to  start  the  next  morning  for  Auxerre,  distant 
sixty  miles,  and,  the  fare  being  but  five  francs,  we  thought 
it  wisest  to  take  places.  It  was  always  with  reluctance  that 
we  departed  from  our  usual  mode  of  travelling,  but  in  the 
present  instance  the  circumstances  absolutely  compelled  it. 

Next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we  took  our  seats  in  a  large 
square  vehicle  on  two  wheels  calculated  for  six  persons  and 
a  driver  with  a  single  horse.  But,  as  he  was  fat  and  round 
as  an  elephant  and  started  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  and  we  were  well 
protected  from  the  rain,  it  was  not  so  bad,  after  all,  barring 
the  jolts  and  jarred  vertebra?.  We  drove  on  over  the  same 
dreary  expanse  of  plain  and  forest,  passing  through  two  or 
three  towns  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  by  evening  had 
made  somewhat  more  than  half  our  journey.  Owing  to 
the  slowness  of  our  fresh  horse  we  were  jolted  about  the 
whole  night,  and  did  not  arrive  at  Auxerre  until  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  After  waiting  an  hour  in  a  hotel  beside 
the  rushing  Yonne  a  lumbering  diligence  was  got  ready, 
and  we  were  given  places  to  Paris  for  seven  francs.    As  the 


404  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

distance  is  one  hundred  and  ten  miles,  this  would  be  con- 
sidered cheap ;  but  I  should  not  want  to  travel  it  again  and 
be  paid  for  doing  so.  Twelve  persons  were  packed  into  a 
box  not  large  enough  for  a  cow,  and  no  cabinet-maker  ever 
dovetailed  the  corners  of  his  bureaus  tighter  than  we  did 
our  knees  and  nether  extremities.  It  is  my  lot  to  be  bless- 
ed with  abundance  of  stature,  and  none  but  tall  persons 
can  appreciate  the  misery  of  sitting  for  hours  with  their 
joints  in  an  immovable  vise.  The  closeness  of  the  atmo- 
sphere— for  the  passengers  would  not  permit  the  windows 
to  be  opened,  for  fear  of  taking  cold — combined  with  loss 
of  sleep,  made  me  so  drowsy  that  my  head  was  continually 
falling  on  my  next  neighbor,  who,  being  a  heavy  country- 
lady,  thrust  it  indignantly  away.  I  would  then  try  my 
best  to  keep  it  up  a  while,  but  it  would  droop  gradually,  till 
the  crash  of  a  bonnet  or  a  smart  bump  against  some  other 
head  would  recall  me  for  a  moment  to  consciousness. 

We  passed  Joigny,  on  the  Yonne,  Sens,  with  its  glorious 
old  cathedral,  and  at  dusk  reached  Montereau,  on  the  Seine. 
This  was  the  scene  of  one  of  Napoleon's  best  victories  on 
his  return  from  Elba.  In  driving  over  the  bridge  I  looked 
down  on  the  swift  and  swollen  current,  and  hoped  that  its 
hue  might  never  be  darkened  again  so  fearfully  as  the  last 
sixty  years  have  witnessed.  No  river  in  Europe  has  such 
an  association  connected  with  it.  We  think  of  the  Danube 
for  its  majesty,  of  the  Rhine  for  its  wild  beauty,  but  of  the 
Seine — for  its  blood! 

In  coming  thus  to  the  last  famed  stream  I  shall  visit  in 
Europe,  I  might  say,  with  Barry  Cornwall, 

"We've  sailed  through  banks  of  green, 
Where  the  wild  waves  fret  and  quiver, 

And  we've  down  the  Danube  been — 
The  dark,  deep,  thundering  river; 

We've  tbridded  the  Elbe  and  Rhone, 
The  Tiber  and  blood-dyed  Seine, 


AN  IGNORANT  CONDUCTOR  405 

'  And  we've  been  where  the  blue  Garonne 

Goes  laughing  to  meet  the  main." 

All  that  night  did  we  endure  squeezing  and  suffocation, 
and  no  morn  was  ever  more  welcome  than  that  which  re- 
vealed to  us  Paris.  With  matted  hair,  wild,  glaring  eyes 
and  dusty  and  dishevelled  habiliments  we  entered  the  gay 
capital,  and  blessed  every  stone  upon  which  we  placed  our 
feet,  in  the  fulness  of  our  joy. 

In  paying  our  fare  at  Auxerre,  I  was  obliged  to  use  a 
draft  on  the  banker  Rougemont  de  Lowenberg.  The  ig- 
norant conductor  hesitated  to  change  this,  but  permitted 
us  to  go  on  condition  of  keeping  it  until  we  should  arrive. 
Therefore,  on  getting  out  of  the  diligence,  after  forty-eight 
hours  of  sleepless  and  fasting  misery,  the  fadeur  of  the  office 

went  with  me  to  get  it  paid,  leaving  B to  wait  for  us. 

I  knew  nothing  of  Paris,  and  this  merciless  man  kept  me 
for  three  hours  at  his  heels,  following  him  on  all  his  errands 
before  he  did  mine,  in  that  time  traversing  the  whole  length 
of  the  city  in  order  to  leave  a  chbvre-feuille  at  an  aristocratic 
residence  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  Yet  even  combined 
weariness  and  hunger  could  not  prevent  me  from  looking 
with  vivid  interest  down  a  long  avenue  at  the  column  of 
the  Place  Vendume  in  passing,  and  gazing  up  in  wonder  at 
the  splendid  portico  of  the  Madeleine.  But  of  anything  else 
I  have  a  very  faint  remembrance.  "  You  can  eat  breakfast 
now,  I  think,"  said  he,  when  we  returned  :  "  we  have  walked 
more  than  four  leagues." 

I  know  we  will  be  excused  that,  instead  of  hurrying  away 
to  Notre  Dame  or  the  Louvre,  we  sat  down  quietly  to 
a  most  complete  breakfast.  Even  the  most  romantic  must 
be  forced  to  confess  that  admiration  does  not  sit  well  on  an 
empty  stomach.  Our  first  walk  was  to  a  bath,  and  then, 
with  complexions  several  shades  lighter  and  limbs  that  felt 
as  if  lifted  by  invisible  wings,  we  hurried  away  to  the  post- 
office.     I  seized  the  welcome  missives  from  my  far  home 


406  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

with  a  beating  heart,  and,  hastening   back,  read   till  the 
words  became  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

POETICAL   SCENES   IN   PARIS. 

What  a  gay  little  world  in  miniature  this  is !  I  wonder 
not  that  the  French,  with  their  exuberant  gayety  of  spirit, 
should  revel  in  its  ceaseless  tides  of  pleasure  as  if  it  were  an 
earthly  Elysium.  I  feel  already  the  influence  of  its  cheer- 
ful atmosphere,  and  have  rarely  threaded  the  crowds  of  a 
stranger-city  with  so  light  a  heart  as  I  do  now  daily  on  the 
thronged  banks  of  the  Seine.  And  yet  it  would  be  difficult 
to  describe  wherein  consists  this  agreeable  peculiarity.  You 
can  find  streets  as  dark  and  crooked  and  dirty  anywhere  in 
Germany,  and  squares  and  gardens  as  gay  and  sunny  beyond 
the  Alps,  and  yet  they  would  affect  you  far  differently.  You 
could  not,  as  here,  divest  yourself  of  every  particle  of  sad 
or  serious  thought  and  be  content  to  gaze  for  hours  on  the 
showy  scene  without  an  idea  beyond  the  present  moment. 
It  must  be  that  the  spirit  of  the  crowd  is  magnetically 
contagious. 

The  evening  of  our  arrival  we  walked  out  past  the  mass- 
ive and  stately  Hotel  de  Ville  and  took  a  promenade  along 
the  quais.  The  shops  facing  the  river  presented  a  scene  of 
great  splendor.  Several  of  the  quais  on  the  north  bank  of 
the  Seine  are  occupied  almost  entirely  by  jewellers,  the  win- 
dows of  whose  shops,  arranged  in  a  style  of  the  greatest 
taste,  make  a  dazzling  display.  Rows  of  gold  watches  and 
chains  are  arranged  across  the  crystal  panes  and  heaped  in 
pyramids  on  long  glass  slabs ;  cylindrical  wheels  of  wire 
hung  with  jewelled  breastpins  and   earrings   turn   slowly 


NOTRE  DAME.  407 

around  by  some  invisible  agency,  displaying  row  after  row 
of  their  glittering  treasures. 

From  the  centre  of  the  Pont  Neuf  we  could  see  for  a  long 
distance  up  and  down  the  river.  The  different  bridges 
traced  on  either  side  a  dozen  starry  lines  through  the  dark 
air,  and  a  continued  blaze  lighted  the  two  shores  in  their 
whole  length,  revealing  the  outline  of  the  Isle  de  la  Cite. 
I  recognized  the  palaces  of  the  Louvre  and  the  Tuileries  in 
the  dusky  mass  beyond.  Eastward,  looming  against  the 
dark  sky,  I  could  faintly  trace  the  black  towers  of  Notre 
Dame.  The  rushing  of  the  swift  waters  below  mingled  with 
the  rattling  of  a  thousand  carts  and  carriages  and  the  con- 
fusion of  a  thousand  voices  till  it  seemed  like  some  grand 
nightly  festival. 

I  first  saw  Notre  Dame  by  moonlight.  The  shadow  of 
its  stupendous  front  was  thrown  directly  toward  me,  hiding 
the  innumerable  lines  of  the  ornamental  sculpture  which 
cover  its  tall,  square  towers.  I  walked  forward  until  the 
interlacing  Moorish  arches  between  them  stood  full  against 
the  moon,  and  the  light,  struggling  through  the  quaint 
openings  of  the  tracery,  streamed  in  silver  lines  down  into 
the  shadow.  The  square  before  it  was  quite  deserted,  for 
it  stands  on  a  lonely  part  of  the  Isle  de  la  Cite,  and  it  looked 
thus  far  more  majestic  and  solemn  than  in  the  glaring  day- 
light. 

The  great  quadrangle  of  the  Tuileries  encloses  the  Place 
du  Carrousel,  in  the  centre  of  which  stands  a  triumphal  arch 
erected  by  Napoleon  after  his  Italian  victories.  Standing 
in  the  middle  of  this  arch,  you  look  through  the  open  pass- 
age in  the  central  building  of  the  palace  into  the  gardens 
beyond.  Farther  on,  in  a  direct  line,  the  middle  avenue  of 
the  gardens  extends  away  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
where  the  obelisk  of  Luxor  makes  a  perpendicular  line 
through  your  vista;  still  farther  goes  the  broad  avenue 
through    the   Elysian    Fields,    until  afar   off  the  Arc  de 


408  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

l'Etoile — two  miles   distant — closes  this  view  through  the 
palace  doorway. 

Let  us  go  through  it,  and  on  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
reserving  the  gardens  for  another  time.  What  is  there  in 
Europe — nay,  in  the  world, — equal  to  this?  In  the  centre 
the  mighty  obelisk  of  red  granite  pierces  the  sky ;  on  either 
hand  showers  of  silver  spray  are  thrown  up  from  splendid 
bronze  fountains ;  statues  and  pillars  of  gilded  bronze  sweep 
in  a  grand  circle  around  the  square,  and  on  each  side  magnif- 
icent vistas  lead  the  eye  off  and  combine  the  distant  with 
the  near  to  complete  this  unparalleled  view.  Eastward, 
beyond  the  tall  trees  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  rises  the 
long  front  of  the  palace,  with  the  tri-color  floating  above ; 
westward,  in  front  of  us,  is  the  forest  of  the  Elysian  Fields, 
with  the  Arch  of  Triumph — nearly  a  mile  and  a  half  dis- 
tant— looking  down  from  the  end  of  the  avenue,  at  the 
Barriere  de  Neuilly.  To  the  right  and  left  are  the  marble 
fronts  of  the  church  of  the  Madeleine  and  the  chamber  of 
deputies,  the  latter  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine.  Thus 
the  groves  and  gardens  of  Paris,  the  palace  of  her  kings, 
the  proud  monument  of  her  sons'  glory  and  the  masterpieces 
of  modern  French  architecture  are  all  embraced  in  this  one 
splendid  coup  tVceil. 

Following  the  motley  multitude  to  the  bridge,  I  crossed 
and  made  my  way  to  the  Hotel  des  Invalides.  Along  the 
esplanade  playful  companies  of  children  were  running  and 
tumbling  in  their  sports  over  the  green  turf,  which  was  as 
fresh  as  a  meadow,  while — not  the  least  interesting  feature 
of  the  scene — numbers  of  scarred  and  disabled  veterans  in 
the  livery  of  the  hospital  basked  in  the  sunshine,  watching 
with  quiet  satisfaction  the  gambols  of  the  second  generation 
they  have  seen  arise.  What  tales  could  they  not  tell,  those 
wrinkled  and  feeble  old  men !  What  visions  of  Marengo 
and  Austerlitz  and  Borodino  shift  still  with  a  fiery  vivid- 
ness through  their  fading  memories !  Some  may  have  left 
a  limb  on  the  Lybian  desert,  and  the  sabre  of  the  Cossack 


PERE  LA   CHAISE.  409 

may  have  scarred  the  brows  of  others.  They  witnessed  the 
rising  and  setting  of  that  great  meteor  which  intoxicated 
France  with  such  a  blaze  of  power  and  glory,  and  now,  when 
the  recollection  of  that  wonderful  period  seems  almost  like  a 
stormy  dream,  they  are  left  to  guard  the  ashes  of  their  an- 
cient general,  brought  back  from  his  exile  to  rest  in  the 
bosom  of  his  own  French  people.  It  was  to  me  a  touching 
and  exciting  thing  to  look  on  those  whose  eyes  had  wit- 
nessed the  filling  up  of  such  a  fated  leaf  in  the  world's 
history. 

Entrance  is  denied  to  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  until  it  is 
finished,  which  will  not  be  for  three  or  four  years  yet.  I 
went,  however,  into  the  "  Church  of  the  Banners  " — a  large 
chapel  hung  with  two  or  three  hundred  flags  taken  by  the 
armies  of  the  empire.  The  greater  part  of  them  were  Aus- 
trian and  Russian.  It  appeared  to  be  empty  when  I  en- 
tered, but  on  looking  around  I  saw  an  old  gray-headed  sol- 
dier kneeling  at  one  side.  His  head  was  bowed  over  his 
hands,  and  he  seemed  perfectly  absorbed  in  his  thoughts. 
Perhaps  the  very  tattered  banners  which  hung  down  mo- 
tionless above  his  head  he  might  have  assisted  in  conquer- 
ing. I  looked  a  moment  on  those  eloquent  trophies,  and 
then  noiselessly  withdrew. 

There  is  at  least  one  solemn  spot  near  Paris :  the  laugh- 
ing winds  that  come  up  from  the  merry  city  sink  into  sighs 
under  the  cypress  boughs  of  Pere  La  Chaise.  And  yet  it 
is  not  a  gloomy  place,  but  full  of  a  serious  beauty  fitting 
for  a  city  of  the  dead.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sunny  after- 
noon when  I  first  entered  its  gate  and  walked  slowly  up  the 
hill  between  rows  of  tombs  gleaming  white  amid  the  heavy 
foliage,  while  the  green  turf  around  them  was  just  begin- 
ning to  be  starred  by  the  opening  daisies.  From  the  little 
chapel  on  its  summit  I  looked  back  at  the  blue  spires  of  the 
city,  whose  roar  of  life  dwindled  to  a  low  murmur.  Count- 
less pyramids,  obelisks  and  urns  rising  far  and  wide  above 
the  cedars  and  cypresses  showed  the  extent  of  the  splendid 


410  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

necropolis  which  is  inhabited  by  pale  shrouded  emigrants 
from  its  living  sister  below.  The  only  sad  part  of  the 
view  was  the  slope  of  the  hill  allotted  to  the  poor,  where 
legions  of  plain  black  crosses  are  drawn  up  into  solid 
squares  on  its  side  and  stand  alone  and  gloomy — the  ad- 
vanced guard  of  the  army  of  Death.  I  mused  over  the 
tombs  of  Moliere  and  La  Fontaine,  M'assena,  Mortier  and 
Lefebre,  General  Foy  and  Casimir  Perier,  and  finally  de- 
scended to  the  shrine  where  Abelard  reposes  by  the  side  of 
his  Heloise.  The  old  sculptured  tomb  brought  away  from 
the  Paraclete  still  covers  their  remains,  and  pious  hands 
(of  lovers,  perhaps)  keep  fresh  the  wreaths  of  immortelles 
above  their  marble  effigies. 

In  the  Theatre  Francais,  I  saw  Rachel,  the  actress.  She 
appeared  in  the  character  of  "  Virginia  "  in  a  tragedy  of  that 
name  by  the  poet  Latour.  Her  appearance  as  she  came 
upon  the  stage  alone  convinced  me  she  would  not  belie  her 
renown.  She  is  rather  small  in  stature,  with  dark  piercing 
eyes  and  rich  black  hair ;  her  lips  are  full,  but  delicately 
formed,  and  her  features  have  a  marked  yet  flexible  out- 
line which  conveys  the  minutest  shades  of  expression.  Her 
voice  is  clear,  deep  and  thrilling,  and,  like  some  grand 
strain  of  music,  there  are  power  and  meaning  in  its  slightest 
modulations.  Her  gestures  embody  the  very  spirit  of  the 
character ;  she  has  so  perfectly  attained  that  rare  harmony 
of  thought,  sound  and  action — or,  rather,  that  unity  of  feel- 
ing— which  renders  them  harmonious  that  her  acting  seems 
the  unstudied,  irrepressible  impulse  of  her  soul.  With  the 
first  sentence  she  uttered  I  forgot  Rachel ;  I  only  saw  the 
innocent  Roman  girl.  I  awaited  in  suspense  and  with  a 
powerful  sympathy  the  development  of  the  oft-told  tragedy. 
My  blood  grew  warm  with  indignation  when  the  words  of 
Appius  roused  her  to  anger,  and  I  could  scarcely  keep  back 
my  tears  when,  with  a  voice  broken  by  sobs,  she  bade  fare- 
well to  the  protecting  gods  of  her  father's  hearth. 

Among  the  bewildering  variety  of  ancient  ornaments  and 


THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  TUILERIES.  411 

implements  in  the  Egyptian  Gallery  of  the  Louvre,  I  saw 
an  object  of  startling  interest — a  fragment  of  the  Iliad^ 
written  nearly  three  thousand  years  ago.  One  may  even 
dare  to  conjecture  that  the  torn  and  half-mouldered  slip  of 
papyrus  upon  which  he  gazes  may  have  been  taken  down 
from  the  lips  of  the  immortal  Chian.  The  eyes  look  on  those 
faded  characters,  and  across  the  great  gulf  of  Time  the 
soul  leaps  into  the  past,  brought  into  shadowy  nearness  by 
a  mirage  of  the  mind.  There,  as  in  the  desert,  images  start 
up,  vivid,  yet  of  a  vague  and  dreamy  beauty.  We  see  the 
olive  groves  of  Greece.  White-robed  youths  and  maidens 
sit  in  the  shade  of  swaying  boughs,  and  one  of  them  reads 
aloud,  in  words  that  sound  like  the  clashing  of  shields,  the 
deeds  of  Achilles. 

As  we  step  out  the  western  portal  of  the  Tuileries  a  beau- 
tiful scene  greets  us.  We  look  on  the  palace-garden,  fra- 
grant with  flowers  and  classic  with  bronze  copies  of  ancient 
sculpture.  Beyond  this  broad  gravel-walks  divide  the 
flower-bordered  lawns,  and  ranks  of  marble  demigods  and 
heroes  look  down  on  the  joyous  crowd.  Children  troll  their 
hoops  along  the  avenues  or  skip  the  rope  under  the  clipped 
lindens,  whose  boughs  are  now  tinged  a  pale  yellow  by  the 
bursting  buds.  The  swans  glide  about  on  a  pond  in  the 
centre,  begging  bread  of  the  bystanders,  who  watch  a  min- 
iature ship  which  the  soft  breeze  carries  steadily  across. 
Paris  is  unseen,  but  heard,  on  every  side;  only  the  Column 
of  Luxor  and  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  rise  blue  and  grand 
above  the  top  of  the  forest.  What  with  the  sound  of 
voices,  the  merry  laughter  of  the  children  and  a  host  of 
smiling  faces,  the  scene  touches  a  happy  chord  in  one's 
heart,  and  he  mingles  with  it,  lost  in  pleasant  reverie,  till 
the  sounds  fade  away  with  the  fading  light. 

Just  below  the  baths  of  the  Louvre  there  are  several 
floating  barges,  belonging  to  the  washerwomen,  anchored  at 
the  foot  of  the  great  stone  staircase  leading  down  to  the 
watei*.    They  stand  there  day  after  day,  beating  their  clothes 


412  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

upon  flat  boards  and  rinsing  them  in  the  Seine.  One  day 
there  seemed  to  have  been  a  wedding  or  some  other  cause 
of  rejoicing  among  them,  for  a  large  number  of  the  young- 
est were  talking  in  great  glee  on  one  of  the  platforms  of 
the  staircase,  while  a  handsome  German-looking  youth 
stood  near  with  a  guitar  slung  around  his  neck.  He  struck 
up  a  lively  air,  and  the  girls  fell  into  a  droll  sort  of  a  dance. 
They  went  at  it  heayily  and  roughly  enough,  but  made  up 
in  good-humor  what  they  lacked  in  grace.  The  older  mem- 
bers of  the  craft  looked  up  from  their  work  with  satisfac- 
tion, and  many  shouts  of  applause  were  sent  down  to  them 
from  the  spectators  on  the  quai  and  the  Pont  Neuf.  Not 
content  with  this,  they  seized  on  some  luckless  men  who 
were  descending  the  steps,  and,  clasping  them  with  their 
powerful  right  arms,  spun  them  around  like  so  many  tops 
and  sent  them  whizzing  off  at  a  tangent.  Loud  bursts  of 
laughter  greeted  this  performance,  and  the  stout  river- 
maidens  returned  to  their  dance  with  redoubled  spirit. 

Yesterday  the  famous  procession  of  the  Boeuf  Gras  took 
place  for  the  second  time,  with  great  splendor.  The  order 
of  march  had  been  duly  announced  beforehand,  and  by 
noon  all  the  streets  and  squares  through  which  it  was  to 
pass  were  crowded  with  waiting  spectators.  Mounted  gens- 
d'armes  rode  constantly  to  and  fro  to  direct  the  passage  of 
vehicles  and  keep  an  open  thoroughfare.  Thousands  of 
country  peasants  poured  into  the  city,  the  boys  of  whom 
were  seen  in  all  directions  blowing  distressingly  through 
hollow  ox-horns.  Altogether,  the  spirit  of  nonsense  which 
animated  the  crowd  displayed  itself  very  amusingly. 

A  few  mounted  guards  led  the  procession,  followed  by  a 
band  of  music.  Then  appeared  Roman  lictors  and  officers 
of  sacrifice,  leading  Dagobert,  the  famous  bull  of  Normandy, 
destined  to  the  honor  of  being  slaughtered  as  the  Carnival 
beef.  He  trod  rather  tenderly,  finding,  no  doubt,  a  differ- 
ence between  the  meadows  of  Caen  and  the  pavements  of 
Paris,  and  I  thought  he  would  have  been  willing  to  forego 


CARNIVAL  SCENES.  413 

his  gilded  horns  and  flowery  crown  to  get  back  there  again. 
His  weight  was  said  to  be  four  thousand  pounds,  and  the 
bills  pompously  declared  that  he  had  no  rival  in  France 
except  the  elephant  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 

After  him  came  the  farmer  by  whom  he  was  raised,  and 
M.  Roland,  the  butcher  of  the  Carnival,  followed  by  a 
hundred  of  the  same  craft  dressed  as  cavaliers  of  the  dif- 
ferent ages  of  France.  They  made  a  very  showy  appear- 
ance, although  the  faded  velvet  and  soiled  tinsel  of  their 
mantles  were  rather  too  apparent  by  daylight. 

After  all  these  had  gone  by  came  an  enormous  triumphal 
car  very  profusely  covered  with  gilding  and  ornamental 
flowers.  A  fellow  with  long  woollen  hair  and  beard,  in- 
tended to  represent  Time,  acted  as  driver.  In  the  car,  un- 
der a  gilded  canopy,  reposed  a  number  of  persons  in  blue 
silk  smocks  and  yellow  flesh-tights,  said  to  be  Venus,  Apollo, 
the  Graces,  etc.,  but  I  endeavored  in  vain  to  distinguish  one 
divinity  from  another.  However,  three  children  on  the 
back  seat  dressed  in  the  same  style,  with  the  addition  of 
long  flaxy  ringlets,  made  very  passable  Cupids.  This 
closed  the  march,  which  passed  onward  toward  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  accompanied  by  the  sounds  of  music  and 
the  shouts  of  the  mob.  The  broad  splendid  line  of  boule- 
vards which  describe  a  semicircle  around  the  heart  of  the 
city  were  crowded,  and  for  the  whole  distance  of  three  miles 
it  required  no  slight  labor  to  make  one's  way.  People  in 
masks  and  fancy  costumes  were  continually  passing  and  re- 
passing, and  I  detected  in  more  than  one  of  the  carriages 
cheeks  rather  too  fair  to  suit  the  slouched  hunter's  hats 
which  shaded  them.  It  seemed  as  if  all  Paris  was  taking 
holiday  and  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 


414  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

CHAPTER    XLVI. 

A   GLIMPSE   OF   NORMANDY. 

After  a  residence  of  five  weeks — which,  in  spite  of 
some  few  troubles,  passed  away  quickly  and  delightfully — I 
turned  my  back  on  Paris.  It  was  not  regret  I  experienced 
on  taking  my  seat  in  the  cars  for  Versailles,  but  that  feel- 
ing of  reluctance  with  which  we  leave  places  whose  bright- 
ness and  gayety  force  the  mind  away  from  serious  toil. 
Steam,  however,  cuts  short  all  sentiment,  and  in  much  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  bid  farewell  to  a  German  we  had 
whizzed  past  the  Place  d'Europe,  through  the  barrier,  and 
were  watching  the  spires  start  up  from  the  receding  city, 
on  the  way  to  St.  Cloud. 

At  Versailles,  I  spent  three  hours  in  a  hasty  walk  through 
the  palace,  which  allowed  but  a  bare  glance  at  the  gorgeous 
paintings  of  Horace  Vernet.  His  "  Taking  of  Constan- 
tine"  has  the  vivid  look  of  reality.  The  white  houses 
shine  in  the  sun,  and  from  the  bleached  earth  to  the  blue 
and  dazzling  sky  there  seems  to  hang  a  heavy,  scorching 
atmosphere.  The  white  smoke  of  the  artillery  curls  almost 
visibly  off  the  canvas,  and  the  cracked  and  half-sprung 
walls  look  as  if  about  to  topple  down  on  the  besiegers. 
One  series  of  halls  is  devoted  to  the  illustration  of  the 
knightly  chronicles  of  France  from  the  days  of  Charle- 
magne to  those  of  Bayard  and  Gaston  de  Foix.  Among 
these  pictured  legends,  I  looked  with  the  deepest  interest 
on  that  of  the  noble  girl  of  Orleans.  Her  countenance — 
the  same  in  all  these  pictures,  and  in  a  beautiful  statue  of 
her  which  stands  in  one  of  the  corridors — is  said  to  be 
copied  from  an  old  and  well-authenticated  portrait.  United 
to  the  sweetness  and  purity  of  peasant  beauty,  she  has  the 
lofty  brow  and  inspired  expression  of  a  prophetess.  There 
is  a  soft  light  in  her  full  blue  eye  that  does  not  belong  to 


A  GLOOMY  WALK.  415 

earth.  I  wonder  not  the  soldiery  deemed  her  chosen  by 
God  to  lead  them  to  successful  battle ;  had  I  lived  in  those 
times,  I  could  have  followed  her  consecrated  banner  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  In  the  statue  she  stands  musing,  with 
her  head  drooping  forward,  as  if  the  weight  of  the  breastplate 
oppressed  her  woman's  heart ;  the  melancholy  soul  which 
shines  through  the  marble  seems  to  forebode  the  fearful 
winding  up  of  her  eventful  destiny.  The  afternoon  was 
somewhat  advanced  by  the  time  I  had  seen  the  palace  and 
gardens.  After  a  hurried  dinner  at  a  restaurant,  I  shoul- 
dered my  knapsack  and  took  the  road  to  St.  Germain. 
The  day  was  gloomy  and  cheerless,  and  I  should  have  felt 
very  lonely  but  for  the  thought  of  soon  reaching  England. 
There  is  no  time  of  the  year  more  melancholy  than  a 
cold,  cloudy  day  in  March ;  whatever  may  be  the  beauties 
of  pedestrian  travelling  in  fairer  seasons,  my  experience 
dictates  that  during  winter  storms  and  March  glooms  it  had 
better  be  dispensed  with.  However,  I  pushed  on  to  St.  Ger- 
main, threaded  its  long  streets,  looked  down  from  the  height 
over  its  magnificent  tract  of  forest  and  turned  westward 
down  the  Seine.  Owing  to  the  scantiness  of  villages,  I  was 
obliged  to  walk  an  hour  and  a  half  in  the  wind  and  dark- 
ness before  I  reached  a  solitary  inn.  As  I  opened  the  door 
and  asked  for  lodging  the  landlady  inquired  if  I  had  the 
necessary  papers ;  I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  was 
admitted.  While  I  was  eating  supper,  they  prepared  their 
meal  on  the  other  end  of  the  small  table  and  sat  down  to- 
gether. They  fell  into  the  error  so  common  to  ignorant 
persons — of  thinking  a  foreigner  could  not  understand  them 
— and  began  talking  quite  unconcernedly  about  me.  "  Why 
don't  he  take  the  railroad  ?"  said  the  old  man.  "  He  must 
have  very  little  money ;  it  would  be  bad  for  us  if  he  had 
none." — "  Oh,"  remarked  his  son,  "  if  he  had  none,  he  would 
not  be  sitting  there  so  quiet  and  unconcerned."  (I  thought 
there  was  some  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  this  remark.) 
— "And,  besides,"  added  the  landlady,  "  there  is  no  danger 


416  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

for  us,  for  we  have  his  passport."  Of  course  I  enjoyed  this 
in  secret,  and  mentally  pardoned  their  suspicions  when  I 
reflected  that  the  high-roads  between  Paris  and  London  are 
frequented  by  many  impostors,  which  makes  the  people 
naturally  mistrustful. 

I  walked  all  the  next  day  through  a  beautiful  and  richly- 
cultivated  country.  The  early  fruit  trees  were  bursting  into 
bloom,  and  the  farmers  led  out  their  cattle  to  pasturage  in 
the  fresh  meadows.  The  scenery  must  be  delightful  in  sum- 
mer— worthy  of  all  that  has  been  said  or  sung  about  lovely 
Normandy.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  before  reach- 
ing Rouen,  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  remains  of  Chateau  Gal- 
liard,  the  favorite  castle  of  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion.  Rouen 
breathes  everywhere  of  the  ancient  times  of  Normandy. 
Nothing  can  be  more  picturesque  than  its  quaint,  irregular 
wooden  houses  and  the  low  mossy  mills  spanning  the  clear 
streams  which  rush  through  its  streets.  The  cathedral,  with 
its  four  towers,  rises  from  among  the  clustered  cottages  like 
a  giant  rock  split  by  the  lightning  and  worn  by  the  rains 
of  centuries  into  a  thousand  fantastic  shapes. 

Resuming  my  walk  in  the  afternoon,  I  climbed  the  heights 
west  of  the  city,  and  after  passing  through  a  suburb  four 
or  five  miles  in  length  entered  the  vale  of  the  Cailly.  This 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  scenes  in  France.  It  lies  among  the 
woody  hills  like  a  Paradise,  with  its  velvet  meadows  and 
villas  and  breathing-gardens.  The  grass  was  starred  with 
daisies ;  and  if  I  took  a  step  into  the  oak  and  chestnut 
woods,  I  trampled  on  thousands  of  anemones  and  fragrant 
daffodils.  The  upland  plain,  stretching  inward  from  the 
coast,  wears  a  different  character.  As  I  ascended,  toward 
evening,  and  walked  over  its  monotonous  swells,  I  felt  al- 
most homesick  beneath  its  saddening  influence.  The  sun, 
hazed  over  with  dull  clouds,  gave  out  that  cold  and  lifeless 
light  which  is  more  lonely  than  complete  darkness ;  the 
wind,  sweeping  dismally  over  the  fields,  sent  clouds  of  blind- 
ing dust  down  the  road,  and  as  it  passed  through  the  forests 


DIEPPE.  417 

the  myriads  of  fine  twigs  sent  up  a  sound  as  deep  and  grand 
as  the  roar  of  a  roused  ocean.  Every  chink  of  the  Norman 
cottage  where  I  slept  whistled  most  drearily,  and  as  I  look- 
ed out  the  little  window  of  my  room  the  trees  were  swaying 
in  the  gloom  and  long  black  clouds  scudded  across  the  sky. 
Though  my  bed  was  poor  and  hard,  it  was  a  sublime  sound 
that  cradled  me  into  slumber.  Homer  might  have  used  it 
as  the  lullaby  of  Jove. 

My  last  day  on  the  Continent  came.  I  rose  early,  and 
walked  over  the  hills  toward  Dieppe.  The  scenery  grew 
more  bleak  as  I  approached  the  sea,  but  the  low  and  shel- 
tered valleys  preserved  the  pastoral  look  of  the  interior. 
In  the  afternoon,  as  I  climbed  a  long  elevated  ridge  over 
which  a  strong  north-wester  was  blowing,  I  was  struck  with 
a  beautiful  rustic  church  in  one  of  the  dells  below  me. 
While  admiring  its  neat  tower  I  had  gained  unconsciously 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  on  turning  suddenly  around,  lo! 
there  was  the  glorious  old  Atlantic  stretching  far  before  and 
around  me.  A  shower  was  sweeping  mistily  along  the  hori- 
zon ;  and  I  could  trace  the  white  line  of  the  breakers  that 
foamed  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  The  scene  came  over  me 
like  a  vivid  electric  shock,  and  I  gave  an  involuntary  shout 
which  might  have  been  heard  in  all  the  valleys  around. 
After  a  year  and  a  half  of  wandering  over  the  Continent, 
that  gray  ocean  was  something  to  be  revered  and  loved,  for 
it  clasped  the  shores  of  my  native  America. 

I  entered  Dieppe  in  a  heavy  shower ;  and  after  finding 
an  inn  suited  to  my  means  and  obtaining  a  permis  d'em- 
barquement  from  the  police-office,  I  went  out  to  the  battle- 
ments and  looked  again  on  the  sea.  The  landlord  promised 
to  call  me  in  time  for  the  boat,  but  my  anxiety  waked  me 
sooner,  and,  mistaking  the  strokes  of  the  cathedral-bell,  I 
shouldered  my  knapsack  and  went  down  to  the  wharf  at 
one  o'clock.  No  one  was  stirring  on  board  the  boat,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  pace  the  silent,  gloomy  streets  of  the  town 
for  two  hours.  I  watched  the  steamer  glide  out  on  the 
27 


418  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

rainy  channel,  and,  turning  into  the  topmost  berth,  drew 
the  sliding  curtain  and  strove  to  keep  out  cold  and  sea- 
sickness, but  it  was  unavailing.  A  heavy  storm  of  snow 
and  rain  rendered  our  passage  so  dreary  that  I  did  not  stir 
until  we  were  approaching  the  chain-pier  of  Brighton. 

I  looked  out  on  the  foggy  shores  of  England  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief:  my  tongue  would  now  be  freed  from  the  dif- 
ficult bondage  of  foreign  languages,  and  my  ears  be  re- 
joiced with  the  music  of  my  own.  After  two  hours'  delay 
at  the  custom-house,  I  took  my  seat  in  an  open  car  for  Lon- 
don. The  day  was  dull  and  cold;  the  sun  resembled  a 
milky  blotch  in  the  midst  of  a  leaden  sky.  I  sat  and  shiv- 
ered as  we  flew  onward  amid  the  rich,  cultivated  English 
scenery.  At  last  the  fog  grew  thicker.  The  road  was  car- 
ried over  the  tops  of  houses,  the  familiar  dome  of  St.  Paul's 
stood  out  above  the  spires,  and  I  was  again  in  London. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

LOCKHART,  BERNARD    BARTON  AND  CROLY. — LONDON 
CHIMES   AND    GREENWICH    FAIR. 

My  circumstances  on  arriving  at  London  were  again 
very  reduced.  A  franc  and  a  half  constituted  the  whole 
of  my  funds.  This,  joined  to  the  knowledge  of  London 
expenses,  rendered  instant  exertion  necessary  to  prevent 
still  greater  embarrassment.  I  called  on  a  printer  the  next 
morning,  hoping  to  procure  work,  but  found,  as  I  had  no 
documents  with  me  to  show  I  had  served  a  regular  appren- 
ticeship, this  would  be  extremely  difficult,  although  work- 
men were  in  great  demand.  Mr.  Putnam,  however,  on 
whom  I  had  previously  called,  gave  me  employment  for  a 
time  in  his  publishing  establishment,  and  thus  I  was  fortu- 


MURRAY,   THE  PUBLISHER.  419 

natcly  enabled  to  await  the  arrival  of  a  remittance  from 
home. 

Mrs.  Trollope,  whom  I  met  in  Florence,  kindly  gave  me 
a  letter  to  Murray,  the  publisher,  and  I  visited  him  soon 
after  my  arrival.  In  his  library  I  saw  the  original  por- 
traits of  Byron,  Moore,  Campbell,  and  the  other  authors 
who  were  intimate  with  him  and  his  father.  A  day  or  two 
afterward  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  breakfast  with  Lock- 
hart  and  Bernard  Barton  at  the  house  of  the  former.  Mr. 
Murray,  through  whom  the  invitation  was  given,  accompa- 
nied me  there.  As  it  was  late  when  we  arrived  at  Regent's 
Park,  we  found  them  waiting,  and  sat  down  immediately  to 
breakfast. 

I  was  much  pleased  with  Lockhart's  appearance  and 
manners.  He  has  a  noble,  manly  countenance — in  fact,  the 
handsomest  English  face  I  ever  saw — a  quick,  dark  eye  and 
an  ample  forehead  shaded  by  locks  which  show  as  yet  but 
few  threads  of  gray.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm  in  his  rich, 
soft  voice ;  especially  when  reciting  poetry,  it  has  a  clear, 
organ-like  vibration  which  thrills  deliciously  on  the  ear. 
His  daughter,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  is  a  most 
lovely  and  amiable  girl. 

Bernard  Barton,  who  is  now  quite  an  old  man,  is  a  very 
lively  and  sociable  Friend.  His  head  is  gray  and  almost 
bald,  but  there  is  still  plenty  of  fire  in  his  eyes  and  life  in 
his  limbs.  His  many  kind  and  amiable  qualities  endear 
him  to  a  large  circle  of  literary  friends.  He  still  continues 
writing,  and  within  the  last  year  has  brought  out  a  volume 
of  simple,  touching  household  verses.  A  picture  of  cheer- 
ful and  contented  old  age  has  never  been  more  briefly  and 
beautifully  drawn  than  in  the  following  lines,  which  he  sent 
me  in  answer  to  my  desire  to  possess  one  of  his  poems  in  his 
own  hand  : 

STANZAS. 

I  feel  that  I  am  growing  old, 
Nor  wish  to  hide  that  truth, 


420  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Conscious  my  heart  is  not  more  cold 
Than  in  my  bygone  youth. 

I  cannot  roam  the  country  round 

As  I  was  wont  to  do ; 
My  feet  a  scantier  circle  bound, 

My  eyes  a  narrower  view. 

But  on  my  mental  vision  rise 

Bright  scenes  of  beauty  still — 
Morn's  splendor,  evening's  glowing  skies, 

Valley  and  grove  and  hill. 

Nor  can  infirmities  o'erwhelm 

The  purer  pleasures  brought 
From  the  immortal  spirit's  realm 

Of  feeling  and  of  thought. 

My  heart,  let  not  dismay  or  doubt 

In  thee  an  entrance  win ; 
Thou  hast  enjoyed  thyself  without; 

Now  seek  thy  joy  within. 

During  breakfast  he  related  to  us  a  pleasant  anecdote  of 
Scott.  He  once  wrote  to  the  poet  in  behalf  of  a  young  lady 
who  wished  to  have  the  description  of  Melrose,  in  the  "  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  in  the  poet's  own  writing.  Scott 
sent  it,  but  added  these  lines  to  the  conclusion : 

"  Then  go  and  muse  with  deepest  awe 
On  what  the  writer  never  saw, 
Who  would  not  wander  'neath  the  moon 
To  see  what  he  could  9ee  at  noon." 

We  went  afterward  into  Lockhart's  library,  which  was 
full  of  interesting  objects.  I  saw  the  private  diary  of  Scott, 
kept  until  within  a  short  time  of  his  death.  It  was  melancholy 
to  trace  the  gradual  failing  of  all  his  energies  in  the  very 
wavering  of  the  autograph.  In  a  large  volume  of  his  cor- 
respondence containing  letters  from  Campbell,  Wordsworth, 


CROLY.  421 

Byron,  and  all  the  distinguished  characters  of  the  age,  I 
saw  Campbell's  "  Battle  of  the  Baltic  "  in  his  own  hand.  I 
was  highly  interested  and  gratified  with  the  whole  visit — the 
more  so  as  Mr.  Lockhart  had  invited  me  voluntarily  with- 
out previous  acquaintance.  I  have  since  heard  him  spoken 
of  in  the  highest  terms  of  esteem. 

I  went  one  Sunday  to  the  church  of  St.  Stephen  to  hear 
Croly,  the  poet.  The  service,  read  by  a  drowsy  clerk,  was 
long  and  monotonous.  I  sat  in  a  side-aisle  looking  up  at 
the  dome  and  listening  to  the  rain  which  dashed  in  torrents 
against  the  window-panes.  At  last  a  tall  gray-haired  man 
came  down  the  passage.  He  bowed  with  a  sad  smile  so  full 
of  benevolence  and  resignation  that  it  went  into  my  heart 
at  once,  and  I  gave  him  an  involuntary  tribute  of  sympathy. 
He  has  a  heavy  affliction  to  bear — the  death  of  his  gallant 
son,  one  of  the  officers  who  were  slain  in  the  late  battle  of 
Ferozeshaw.  His  whole  manner  betrays  the  tokens  of  sub- 
dued but  constant  grief. 

His  sermon  was  peculiarly  finished  and  appropriate.  The 
language  was  clear  and  forcible,  without  that  splendor  of 
thought  and  dazzling  vividness  of  imagery  which  mark 
"  Salathiel,"  yet  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  he  delighted 
to  dwell  on  the  spiritualities  of  religion  rather  than  its  out- 
ward observances,  which  he  seemed  inclined  to  hurry  over 
as  lightly  as  possible.  His  mild  gray  eye  and  lofty  forehead 
are  more  like  the  benevolent  divine  than  the  poet.  I  thought 
of  Salathiel,  and  looked  at  the  dignified,  sorrowful  man  be- 
fore me.  The  picture  of  the  accursed  Judean  vanished,  and 
his  own  solemn  lines  rang  on  my  ear : 

"The  mighty  grave 
Wraps  lord  and  slave, 
Nor  Pride  nor  Poverty  dares  come 
Within  that  prison-house,  that  tomb." 

Whenever  I  hear  them  or  think  of  them  again,  I  shall  see 
in  memory  Croly 's  calm,  pale  countenance. 


422  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

"  The  chimes — the  chimes  of  Mother-land, 
Of  England  green  and  old — 
That  out  from  thane  and  ivied  tower 
A  thousand  years  have  tolled !" 

I  often  thought  of  Coxe's  beautiful  ballad  when,  after  a  day- 
spent  in  Waterloo  Place,  I  have  listened,  on  my  way  home- 
ward, to  the  chimes  of  Mary-le-bone  chapel  sounding  sweetly 
and  clearly  above  all  the  din  of  the  Strand.  There  is  some- 
thing in  their  silvery  vibration  which  is  far  more  expressive 
than  the  ordinary  tones  of  a  bell.  The  ear  becomes  weary 
of  a  continued  toll — the  sound  of  some  bells  seems  to  have 
nothing  more  in  it  than  the  ordinary  clang  of  metal — but 
these  simple  notes,  following  one  another  so  melodiously, 
fall  on  the  ear,  stunned  by  the  ceaseless  roar  of  carriages  or 
the  mingled  cries  of  the  mob,  as  gently  and  gratefully  as 
drops  of  dew.  Whether  it  be  morning  and  they  ring  out 
louder  and  deeper  through  the  mist,  or  midnight,  when  the 
vast  ocean  of  being  beneath  them  surges  less  noisily  than 
its  wont,  they  are  alike  full  of  melody  and  poetry.  I  have 
often  paused  deep  in  the  night  to  hear  those  clear  tones 
dropping  down  from  the  darkness,  thrilling  with  their  full, 
tremulous  sweetness  the  still  air  of  the  lighted  Strand,  and 
winding  away  through  dark,  silent  lanes  and  solitary  courts 
till  the  ear  of  the  careworn  watcher  is  scarcely  stirred  with 
their  dying  vibrations.  They  seemed  like  those  spirit-voices 
which  at  such  times  speak  almost  audibly  to  the  heart. 
How  delicious  it  must  be,  to  those  who  dwell  within  the 
limits  of  their  sound,  to  wake  from  some  happy  dream  and 
hear  those  chimes  blending  in  with  their  midnight  fancies 
like  the  musical  echo  of  the  promised  bliss !  I  love  these 
eloquent  bells,  and  I  think  there  must  be  many  living  out 
a  life  of  misery  and  suffering  to  whom  their  tones  come 
with  an  almost  human  consolation.  The  natures  of  the  very 
cockneys  who  never  go  without  the  horizon  of  their  vibra- 
tions is  to  my  mind  invested  with  one  hue  of  poetry. 

A  few  days  ago  an  American  friend  invited  me  to  acconi- 


GREENWICH  FAIR.  423 

pany  him  to  Greenwich  fair.  We  took  a  penny  steamer 
from  Hungerford  Market  to  London  Bridge,  and  jumped 
into  the  cars,  which  go  every  five  minutes.  Twelve  min- 
utes' ride  above  the  chimneys  of  London  and  the  vegetable- 
fields  of  Rotherhithe  and  Deptford  brought  us  to  Green- 
wich, and  we  followed  the  stream  of  people  which  was  flow- 
ing from  all  parts  of  the  city  into  the  park. 

Here  began  the  merriment.  "We  heard  on  every  side  the 
noise  of  the  scratchers — or,  as  the  venders  of  these  articles 
denominated  them,  "  the  fun  of  the  fair."  By  this  is  meant 
a  little  notched  wheel  with  a  piece  of  wood  fastened  on  it, 
like  a  miniature  watchman's  rattle.  The  "  fun  "  consists  in 
drawing  them  down  the  back  of  any  one  you  pass,  when 
they  make  a  sound  precisely  like  that  of  ripping  cloth.  The 
women  take  great  delight  in  this,  and,  as  it  is  only  deemed 
politeness  to  return  the  compliment,  we  soon  had  enough  to 
do.  Nobody  seemed  to  take  the  diversion  amiss,  but  it 
was  so  irresistibly  droll  to  see  a  large  crowd  engaged  in 
this  singular  amusement  that  we  both  burst  into  hearty 
laughter. 

As  we  began  ascending  Greenwich  Hill  we  were  assailed 
with  another  kind  of  game.  The  ground  was  covered  with 
smashed  oranges,  with  which  the  people  above  and  below 
were  stoutly  pelting  each  other.  Half  a  dozen  heavy  ones 
whizzed  uncomfortably  near  my  head  as  I  went  up,  and  I 
saw  several  persons  get  the  full  benefit  of  a  shot  on  their  backs 
and  breasts.  The  young  country-lads  and  lasses  amused 
themselves  by  running  at  full  speed  down  the  steep  side  of 
a  hill.  This  was,  however,  a  feat  attended  with  some  risk, 
for  I  saw  one  luckless  girl  describe  an  arc  of  a  circle  of 
which  her  feet  were  the  centre  and  her  body  the  radius.  All 
was  noise  and  nonsense.  They  ran  to  and  fro  under  the 
long,  hoary  boughs  of  the  venerable  oaks  that  crest  the 
summit,  and  clattered  down  the  magnificent  forest-avenues, 
whose  budding  foliage  gave  them  little  shelter  from  the 
passing  April  showers. 


424  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

The  view  from  the  top  is  splendid.  The  stately  Thames 
curves  through  the  j)lain  below,  which  loses  itself  afar  off 
in  the  mist ;  Greenwich,  with  its  massive  hospital,  lies  just 
at  one's  feet,  and  in  a  clear  day  the  domes  of  London  skirt 
the  horizon.  The  wood  of  the  park  is  entirely  oak — the 
majestic,  dignified,  English  oak — which  covers  in  pictur- 
esque clumps  the  sides  and  summits  of  the  two  billowy  hills. 
It  must  be  a  sweet  place  in  summer,  when  the  dark,  massive 
foliage  is  heavy  on  every  mossy  arm  and  the  smooth  and 
curving  sward  shines  with  thousands  of  field  flowers. 

Owing  to  the  showers,  the  streets  were  coated  with  mud 
of  a  consistence  as  soft  and  yielding  as  the  most  fleecy 
Persian  carpet.  Near  the  gate  boys  were  holding  scores  of 
donkeys,  which  they  offered  us  at  threepence  for  a  ride  of 
two  miles.  We  walked  down  toward  the  river,  and  came 
at  last  to  a  group  of  tumblers  who  with  muddy  hands  and 
feet  were  throwing  somersets  in  the  open  street.  I  recog- 
nized them  as  old  acquaintances  of  the  Rue  St.  Antoine  and 
the  Champs  Elysees,  but  the  little  boy  who  cried  before  be- 
cause he  did  not  want  to  bend  his  head  and  feet  into  a 
ring,  like  a  hoop-snake,  had  learned  his  part  better  by  this 
time  ;  so  that  he  went  through  it  all  without  whimpering 
and  came  off  with  only  a  fiery-red  face.  The  exercises  of 
the  young  gentlemen  were,  of  course,  very  graceful  and 
classic,  and  the  effect  of  their  poses  of  strength  was  very 
much  heightened  by  the  muddy  footmarks  which  they  left 
on  each  other's  orange-colored  skins. 

The  avenue  of  booths  was  still  more  diverting.  Here, 
under  sheets  of  leaky  awning,  were  exposed  for  sale  rows 
of  gilded  gingerbread  kings  and  queens,  and  I  cannot  re- 
member how  many  men  and  women  held  me  fast  by  the 
arms,  determined  to  force  me  into  buying  a  pound  of  them. 
We  paused  at  the  sign  "  Signor  Urbani's  Grand  Magical 
Display."  The  title  was  attractive ;  so  we  paid  the.  penny 
admission,  and  walked  behind  the  dark,  mysterious  cur- 
tain.   Two  bare  brick  walls,  three  benches  and  a  little  boy 


A  SWING-RIDE.  425 

appeared  to  us.  A  sheet  hung  before  us,  upon  which  quiv- 
ered the  shadow  of  some  terrible  head.  At  my  friend's 
command,  the  boy  (also  a  spectator)  put  out  the  light,  when 
the  awful  and  grinning  face  of  a  black  woman  became  visi- 
ble. While  we  were  admiring  this  striking  production 
thus  mysteriously  revealed,  Signor  Urbani  came  in,  and, 
seeing  no  hope  of  any  more  spectators,  went  behind  the 
curtain  and  startled  our  sensitive  nerves  with  six  or  seven 
skeleton  and  devil  apparitions,  winding  up  the  wonderful 
entertainment  with  the  same  black  head.  We  signified  our 
entire  approbation  by  due  applause,  and  then  went  out  to 
seek  further  novelties. 

The  centre  of  the  square  was  occupied  by  swings,  where 
some  eight  or  ten  boat-loads  of  persons  were  flying  topsy- 
turvy into  the  air,  making  one  giddy  to  look  at  them,  and 
constant  fearful  shrieks  arose  from  the  lady-swingers  at 
finding  themselves  in  a  horizontal  or  inverted  position  high 
above  the  ground.  One  of  the  machines  was  like  a  great 
wheel  with  four  cars  attached,  which  mounted  and  de- 
scended with  their  motley  freight.  We  got  into  the  boat 
by  way  of  experiment.  The  starting-motion  was  pleasant, 
but  very  soon  it  flew  with  a  swiftness  and  to  a  height  rather 
alarming.  I  began  to  repent  having  chosen  such  a  mode 
of  amusement,  but  held  on  as  well  as  I  could  in  my  uneasy 
place.  Presently  we  mounted  till  the  long  beam  of  our 
boat  was  horizontal.  At  one  instant  I  saw  three  young 
ladies  below  me  with  their  heads  downward,  like  a  shadow 
in  the  water ;  the  next,  I  was  turned  heels  up,  looking  at 
them  as  a  shadow  does  at  its  original.  I  was  fast  becoming 
sea-sick,  when,  after  a  few  minutes  of  such  giddy  soaring, 
the  ropes  were  slackened,  and  we  all  got  out  looking  some- 
what pale,  and  feeling  nervous  if  nothing  else. 

There  were  also  many  great  tents,  hung  with  boughs  and 
lighted  with  innumerable  colored  lamps,  where  the  people 
danced  their  country  dances  in  a  choking  cloud  of  dry 
sawdust.     Conjurers  and  gymnastic  performers  were  show- 


426  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ing  off  on  conspicuous  platforms,  and  a  continual  sound  of 
drums,  cymbals  and  shrill  trumpets  called  the  attention  of 
the  crowd  to  some  "  wonderful  exhibition  " — some  infant 
phenomenon,  giant  or  three-headed  pig.  A  great  part  of 
the  crowd  belonged,  evidently,  to  the  very  worst  part  of 
society,  but  the  watchfulness  of  the  police  prevented  any 
open  disorder.  We  came  away  early  and  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  were  in  busy  London,  leaving  far  behind  us  the 
revel  and  debauch,  which  was  prolonged  through  the  whole 
night. 

London  has  the  advantage  of  one  of  the  most  gloomy 
atmospheres  in  the  world.  During  this  opening  spring 
weather  no  light,  and  scarcely  any  warmth,  can  penetrate 
the  dull  yellowish-gray  mist  which  incessantly  hangs  over 
the  city.  Sometimes,  at  noon,  W3  have  for  an  hour  or  two 
a  sickly  gleam  of  sunshine,  but  it  is  soon  swallowed  up  by 
the  smoke  and  drizzling  fog.  The  people  carry  umbrellas 
at  all  times,  for  the  rain  seems  to  drop  spontaneously  out 
of  the  very  air,  without  waiting  for  the  usual  preparation 
of  a  gathering  cloud.  Professor  Espy's  rules  would  be  of 
little  avail  here. 

A  few  days  ago  we  had  a  real  fog — a  specimen  of  No- 
vember weather,  as  the  people  said.  If  November  wears 
such  a  mantle,  London  during  that  sober  month  must  fur- 
nish a  good  idea  of  the  gloom  of  Hades.  The  streets  were 
wrapped  in  a  veil  of  dense  mist  of  a  dirty  yellow  color,  as 
if  the  air  had  suddenly  grown  thick  and  mouldy.  The 
houses  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the  street  were  invisible,  and 
the  gas-lamps  lighted  in  the  shops  burned  with  a  white  and 
ghastly  flame.  Carriages  ran  together  in  the  streets,  and  I 
was  kept  constantly  on  the  lookout  lest  some  one  should 
come  suddenly  out  of  the  cloud  around  me,  and  we  should 
meet  with  a  shock  like  that  of  two  knights  at  a  tournament. 
As  I  stood  in  the  centre  of  Trafalgar  Square,  with  every 
object  invisible  around  me,  it  reminded  me  (hoping  the 
comparison  will  not  be  accepted  in  every  particular)  of 


ENGLISH  EMIGRANTS.  427 

Satan  resting  in  the  middle  of  Chaos.     The  weather  some- 
times continues  thus  for  whole  days  together. 

April  26. 
An  hour  and  a  half  of  land  are  still  allowed  us,  and  then 
we  shall  set  foot  on  the  back  of  the  oak-ribbed  leviathan 
which  will  be  our  home  until  a  thousand  leagues  of  blue 
ocean  are  crossed.  I  shall  hear  the  old  Aldgate  clock  strike 
for  the  last  time ;  I  shall  take  a  last  walk  through  the  Mi- 
nories  and  past  the  Tower-yard  ;  and  as  we  glide  down  the 
Thames,  St.  Paul's,  half  hidden  in  mist  and  coal-smoke,  wiD 
probably  be  my  last  glimpse  of  London. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

HOMEWARD    BOUND. — CONCLUSION. 

We  slid  out  of  St.  Katharine's  dock  at  noon  on  the  ap- 
pointed day,  and  with  a  pair  of  sooty  steamboats  hitched 
to  our  vessel  moved  slowly  down  the  Thames  in  mist  and 
drizzling  rain.  I  stayed  on  the  wet  deck  all  afternoon  that 
I  might  more  forcibly  and  joyously  feel  Ave  were  again  in 
motion  on  the  waters  and  homeward  bound.  My  attention 
was  divided  between  the  dreary  views  of  Blackwall,  Green- 
wich and  Woolwich  and  the  motley  throng  of  passengers 
who  were  to  form  our  ocean-society.  An  English  family 
going  out  to  settle  in  Canada  were  gathered  together  in 
great  distress  and  anxiety,  for  the  father  had  gone  ashore 
in  London  at  a  late  hour,  and  was  left  behind.  When  we 
anchored  for  the  night  at  Gravesend,  their  fears  were  quiet- 
ed by  his  arrival  in  a  skiff  from  the  shore,  as  he  had  imme- 
diately followed  us  by  railroad. 

My  cousin  and  B had  hastened  on  from  Paris  to  join 


428  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

me,  and  a  day  before  the  sailing  of  the  Victoria  we  took 
berths  in  the  second  cabin  for  twelve  pounds  ten  shillings 
each,  which  in  the  London  line  of  packets  includes  coarse 
but  substantial  fare  for  the  whole  voyage.  Our  funds  were 
insufficient  to  pay  even  this,  but  Captain  Morgan,  less  mis- 
trustful than  my  Norman  landlord,  generously  agreed  that 
the   remainder  of  the  fare   should   be   paid   in  America. 

B and  I,  with  two  young  Englishmen,  took  possession 

of  a  state-room  of  rough  boards  lighted  by  a  bull's-eye 
which  in  stormy  weather  leaked  so  much  that  our  trunks 
swam  in  water.  A  narrow  mattress  and  blanket,  with  a 
knapsack  for  a  pillow,  formed  a  passable  bed.  A  long  en- 
try between  the  rooms,  lighted  by  a  feeble  swinging-lamp, 
was  filled  with  a  board  table,  around  which  the  thirty-two 
second-cabin  passengers  met  to  discuss  politics  and  salt  pork, 
favorable  winds  and  hard  sea-biscuit. 

We  lay  becalmed  opposite  Sheerness  the  whole  of  the 
second  day.  At  dusk  a  sudden  squall  came  up  which  drove 
us  foaming  toward  the  North  Foreland.  When  I  went  on 
deck  in  the  morning,  we  had  passed  Dover  and  Brighton, 
and  the  Isle  of  Wight  was  rising  dim  ahead  of  us.  The 
low  English  coast  on  our  right  was  bordered  by  long 
reaches  of  dazzling  chalky  sand  which  glittered  along  the 
calm  blue  water. 

Gliding  into  the  Bay  of  Portsmouth,  we  dropped  anchor 
opposite  the  romantic  town  of  Ryde,  built  on  the  sloping 
shore  of  the  green  Isle  of  Wight.  Eight  or  nine  vessels  of 
the  experimental  squadron  were  anchored  near  us,  and 
over  the  houses  of  Portsmouth  I  saw  the  masts  of  the  Vic- 
tory, the  flag-ship  in  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  on  board  of 
which  Nelson  was  killed.  The  wind  was  not  strong  enough 
to  permit  the  passage  of  the  Needles,  so  at  midnight  we  suc- 
ceeded in  wearing  back  again  into  the  Channel  around  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  A  head-wind  forced  us  to  tack  away  to- 
ward the  shore  of  France.  We  were  twice  in  sight  of  the 
rocky  coast  of  Brittany,  near  Cherbourg,  but  the  misty 


OCEAN-GRANDEUR.  429 

promontory  of  Land's  End  was  our  last  glimpse  of  the  Old 
World. 

On  one  of  our  first  days  at  sea  I  caught  a  curlew,  which 
came  flying  on  weary  wings  toward  us  and  alighted  on  one 
of  the  boats.  Two  of  his  brethren,  too  much  exhausted  or 
too  timid  to  do  likewise,  dropped  flat  on  the  waves  and  re- 
signed themselves  to  their  fate  without  a  struggle.  I  slipped 
up  and  caught  his  long,  lank  legs  while  he  was  resting  with 
flagging  wings  and  half-shut  eyes.  We  fed  him,  though  it 
was  difficult  to  get  anything  down  his  reed-shaped  bill ;  but 
he  took  kindly  to  our  force-work,  and  when  we  let  him 
loose  on  the  deck  walked  about  with  an  air  quite  tame  and 
familiar.  He  died,  however,  two  days  afterward.  A  French 
pigeon  which  was  caught  in  the  rigging  lived  and  throve 
during  the  whole  of  the  passage. 

A  few  days  afterward  a  heavy  storm  came  on,  and  we 
were  all  sleepless  and  sea-sick  as  long  as  it  lasted.  Thanks, 
however,  to  a  beautiful  law  of  memory,  the  recollection  of 
that  dismal  period  soon  lost  its  unpleasantness,  while  the 
grand  forms  of  beauty  the  vexed  ocean  presented  will  re- 
main for  ever  as  distinct  and  abiding  images.  I  kept  on 
deck  as  long  as  I  could  stand,  watching  the  giant  waves 
over  which  our  vessel  took  her  course.  They  rolled  up  to- 
ward us,  thirty  or  forty  feet  in  height — dark-gray  masses 
changing  to  a  beautiful  vitriol  tint  wherever  the  light 
struck  through  their  countless  and  changing  crests.  It  was 
a  glorious  thing  to  see  our  good  ship  mount  slowly  up  the 
side  of  one  of  these  watery  hills  till  her  prow  was  lifted 
high  in  air,  then,  rocking  over  its  brow,  plunge  with  a  slight 
quiver  downward,  and  plough  up  a  briny  cataract  as  she 
struck  the  vale.  I  never  before  realized  the  terrible  sub- 
limity of  the  sea.  And  yet  it  was  a  pride  to  see  how  man, 
strong  in  his  godlike  will,  could  bid  defiance  to  those  whelm- 
ing surges  and  brave  their  wrath  unharmed. 

We  swung  up  and  down  on  the  billows  till  we  scarcely  knew 
which  way  to  stand.    The  most  grave  and  sober  personages 


430  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

suddenly  found  themselves  reeling  in  a  very  undignified 
manner,  and  not  a  few  measured  their  lengths  on  the  slip- 
pery decks.  Boxes  and  barrels  were  affected  in  like  man- 
ner ;  everything  danced  around  us.  Trunks  ran  out  from 
under  the  berths,  packages  leaped  down  from  the  shelves, 
chairs  skipped  across  the  rooms,  and  at  table  knives,  forks 
and  mugs  engaged  in  a  general  waltz  and  breakdown.  One 
incident  of  this  kind  was  rather  laughable.  One  night, 
about  midnight,  the  gale,  which  had  been  blowing  violently, 
suddenly  lulled,  "as  if,"  to. use  a  sailor's  phrase,  "it  had 
been  chopped  off."  Instantly  the  ship  gave  a  tremendous 
lurch,  which  was  the  signal  for  a  general  breaking  loose. 
Two  or  three  others  followed  so  violently  that  for  a  moment 
I  imagined  the  vessel  had  been  thrown  on  her  beam-ends. 
Trunks,  crockery  and  barrels  went  banging  down  from  one 
end  of  the  ship  to  the  other.  The  women  in  the  steerage 
set  up  an  awful  scream,  and  the  German  emigrants,  think- 
ing we  were  in  terrible  danger,  commenced  praying  with 
might  and  main.  In  the  passage  near  our  room  stood  sev- 
eral barrels  filled  with  broken  dishes,  which  at  every  lurch 
went  banging  from  side  to  side,  jarring  the  board  partition 
and  making  a  horrible  din.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the 
Babel  which  kept  our  eyes  open  that  night. 

The  19th  of  May  a  calm  came  on.  Our  white  wings 
flapped  idly  on  the  mast,  and  only  the  top-gallant  sails  were 
bent  enough  occasionally  to  lug  us  along  at  a  mile  an  hour. 
A  barque  from  Ceylon,  making  the  most  of  the  wind,  with 
every  rag  of  canvas  set,  passed  us  slowly  on  the  way  east- 
ward. The  sun  went  down  unclouded,  and  a  glorious  starry 
night  brooded  over  us.  Its  clearness  and  brightness  were 
to  me  indications  of  America.  I  longed  to  be  on  shore. 
The  forests  about  home  were  then  clothed  in  the  delicate 
green  of  their  first  leaves,  and  that  bland  weather  embraced 
the  sweet  earth  like  a  blessing  of  Heaven.  The  gentle 
breath  from  out  the  west  seemed  made  for  the  odor  of  vio- 
lets, and  as  it  came  to  me  over  the  slightly-ruffled  deep  I 


IN  SIGHT  OF  AMERICA.  431 

thought  how  much  sweeter  it  were  to  feel  it  while  "  wasting 
in  wood-paths  the  voluptuous  hours." 

Soon  afterward  a  fresh  wind  sprung  up,  which  increased 
rapidly  till  every  sail  was  bent  to  the  full.  Our  vessel 
parted  the  brine  with  an  arrowy  glide  the  ease  "and  grace 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  The  breeze  held  on 
steadily  for  two  or  three  days,  which  brought  us  to  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  Banks.  Here  the  air  felt  so 
sharp  and  chilling  that  I  was  afraid  we  might  be  under  the 
lee  of  an  iceberg,  but  in  the  evening  the  dull  gray  mass  of 
clouds  lifted  themselves  from  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  set 
in  clear  American  beauty  away  beyond  Labrador.  The 
next  morning  we  were  enveloped  in  a  dense  fog,  and  the 
wind  which  bore  us  onward  wTas  of  a  piercing  coldness.  A 
sharp  lookout  was  kept  on  the  bow,  but,  as  we  could  see  but 
a  short  distance,  it  might  have  been  dangerous  had  we  met 
one  of  the  Arctic  squadron.  At  noon  it  cleared  away 
again,  and  the  bank  of  fog  was  visible  a  long  time  astern, 
piled  along  the  horizon,  reminding  me  of  the  Alps  as  seen 
from  the  plains  of  Piedmont. 

On  the  31st  the  fortunate  wind  which  carried  us  from  the 
Banks  failed  us  about  thirty-five  miles  from  Sandy  Hook. 
We  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  mackerel-fishery,  with  small 
schooners  anchored  all  around  us.  Fog,  dense  and  impen- 
etrable, weighed  on  the  moveless  ocean  like  an  atmosphere 
of  wool.  The  only  incident  to  break  the  horrid  monotony 
of  the  day  was  the  arrival  of  a  pilot  with  one  or  two  news- 
papers detailing  the  account  of  the  Mexican  war.  We 
heard  in  the  afternoon  the  booming  of  the  surf  along  the 
low  beach  of  Long  Island — hollow  and  faint,  like  the  mur- 
mur of  a  shell.  When  the  mist  lifted  a  little,  we  saw  the 
faint  line  of  breakers  along  the  shore.  The  Germans  gath- 
ered on  deck  to  sing  their  old  familiar  songs,  and  their 
voices  blended  beautifully  together  in  the  stillness. 

Next  morning,  at  sunrise,  we  saw  Sandy  Hook  ;  at  nine 
o'clock  we  were  telegraphed  in  New  York  by  the  station  at 


432  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Coney  Island ;  at  eleven  the  steamer  Hercules  met  us  out- 
side the  Hook ;  and  at  noon  we  were  gliding  up  the  Nar- 
rows, with  the  whole  ship's  company  of  four  hundred  per- 
sons on  deck  gazing  on  the  beautiful  shores  of  Staten  Island 
and  agreeing  almost  universally  that  it  was  the  most  de- 
lightful scene  they  had  ever  looked  upon. 

And  now  I  close  the  story  of  my  long  wandering  as  I 
began  it — with  a  lay  written  on  the  deep : 

HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Farewell  to  Europe !     Days  have  come  and  gone 
Since  misty  England  set  behind  the  sea. 
Our  ship  climbs  onward  o'er  the  lifted  waves 
That  gatlier  up  in  ridges,  mountain-high, 
And  like  a  sea-god  conscious  in  his  power 
Buffets  the  surges.     Storm-arousing  winds 
That  sweep  unchecked  from  frozen  Labrador 
Make  wintry  music  through  the  creaking  shrouds. 
Th'  horizon's  ring  that  clasps  the  dreary  view 
Lays  mistily  upon  the  gray  Atlantic's  breast, 
Shut  out  at  times  by  bulk  of  sparry  blue, 
That,  rolling  near  us,  heaves  the  swaying  prow 
High  on  its  shoulders,  to  descend  again 
Ploughing  a  thousand  cascades,  and  around 
Spreading  the  frothy  foam.     These  watery  gulfs, 
With  storm  and  winds  far-sweeping,  hem  us  in 
Alone  upon  the  waters. 

Days  must  pass — 
Many  and  weary — between  sea  and  sky. 
Our  eyes,  that  long  e'en  now  for  the  fresh  green 
Of  sprouting  forests  and  the  far  blue  stretch 
Of  regal  mountains  piled  along  the  sky, 
Must  see  for  many  an  eve  the  level  sun 
Sheathe  with  his  latest  gold  the  heaving  brine, 
By  thousand  ripples  shivered,  or  Night's  pomp 
Brooding  in  silence,  ebon  and  profound, 
Upon  the  murmuring  darkness  of  the  deep, 
Broken  by  flashings  that  the  parted  wave 
Sends  white  and  starlike  through  its  bursting  foam. 
Yet  not  more  dtar  the  opening  dawn  of  heaven 


"HOMEWARD  BOUND."  433 

Poured  on  the  eartli  in  an  Italian  May, 

When  souls  take  wings  upon  the  scented  air 

Of  starry  meadows  and  the  yearning  heart 

Pains  with  deep  sweetness  in  the  balmy  time, 

Than  these  gray  morns  and  days  of  misty  blue 

And  surges  never  ceasing ;  for  our  prow 

Points  to  the  sunset  like  a  morning  ray, 

And  o'er  the  waves  and  through  the  sweeping  storms, 

Through  day  and  darkness,  rushes  ever  on, 

Westward  and  westward  still.     What  joy  can  send 

The  spirit  thrilling  onward  with  the  wind 

In  untamed  exultation  like  the  thought 

That  fills  the  homeward-bound? 

Country  and  home! 
Ah !  not  the  charm  of  silver-tongued  romance 
Born  of  the  feudal  time,  nor  whatsoe'er 
Of  dying  glory  fills  the  golden  realms 
Of  perished  song  where  heaven-descended  Art 
Still  boasts  her  later  triumphs,  can  compare 
With  that  one  thought  of  liberty  inherited — 
Of  free  life  giv'n  by  fathers  who  were  free, 
And  to  be  left  to  children  freer  still. 
That  pride  and  consciousness  of  manhood  caught 
From  boyish  musings  on  the  holy  graves 
Of  hero-martyrs,  and  from  every  form 
Which  virgin  Nature,  mighty  and  unchained, 
Takes  in  an  empire  not  less  proudly  so, 
Inspired  in  mountain-airs  untainted  yet 
By  thousand  generations'  breathing,  felt 
Like  a  near  presence  in  the  awful  depths 
Of  unhewn  forests  and  upon  the  steep 
Where  giant  rivers  take  their  maddening  plunge, — 
Has  grown  impatient  of  the  stifling  damps 
Which  hover  close  on  Europe's  shackled  soil. 
Content  to  tread  a  while  the  holy  steps 
Of  Art  and  Genius,  sacred  through  all  time, 
The  spirit  breathed  that  dull,  oppressive  air 
Which,  freighted  with  its  tyrant-clouds,  o'erweighs 
The  upward  throb  of  many  a  nation's  soul — 
Amid  those  olden  memories  felt  the  thrall, 
But  kept  the  birthright  of  its  freer  home. 
28 


434  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

Here,  on  the  world's  blue  highway,  conies  again 
The  voice  of  Freedom,  heard  amid  the  roar 
Of  sundered  billows,  while  above  the  wave 
Rise  visions  of  the  forest  and  the  stream. 
Like  trailing  robes  the  morning  mists  uproll, 
Torn  by  the  mountain-pines ;  the  flashing  rills 
Shout  downward  through  the  hollows  of  the  vales; 
Down  the  great  river's  bosom  shining  sails 
Glide  with  a  gradual  motion,  while  from  all — 
Hamlet  and  bowered  homestead  and  proud  town — 
Voices  of  joy  ring  far  up  into  heaven. 

Yet  louder,  winds  !     Urge  on  our  keel,  ye  waves, 
Swift  as  the  spirit's  yearnings  !     We  would  ride 
With  a  loud  stormy  motion  o'er  your  crests, 
With  tempests  shouting  like  a  sudden  joy 
Interpreting  our  triumph  !     'Tis  your  voice, 
Ye  unchained  elements,  alone  can  speak 
The  sympathetic  feeling  of  the  free — 
The  arrowy  impulse  of  the  homeward-bound. 


I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  excitement  of  that 
afternoon.  After  thirty-seven  days  between  sky  and  water, 
any  shore  would  have  been  beautiful ;  but  when  it  was  home, 
after  we  had  been  two  years  absent  during  an  age  when 
time  is  always  slow,  it  required  a  powerful  effort  to  main- 
tain any  propriety  of  manner.  The  steward  prepared  a 
parting  dinner  much  better  than  any  we  had  had  at  sea, 
but  I  tried  in  vain  to  eat.  Never  were  trees  such  a  glori- 
ous green  as  those  around  the  quarantine  buildings,  where 
we  lay  to  for  half  an  hour  to  be  visited  by  the  physician. 
The  day  was  cloudy  and  thick  mist  hung  on  the  tops  of  the 
hills,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  could  never  tire  looking  at  the  land. 

At  last  we  approached  the  city.  It  appeared  smaller  than 
when  I  left,  but  this  might  have  been  because  I  was  habitu- 
ated to  the  broad  distances  of  the  sea.  Our  scanty  baggage 
was  brought  on  deck  for  the  inspection  of  the  custom-house 
officer,  but  we  were  neither  annoyed  nor  delayed  by  the 
operation.  The  steamer  by  this  time  had  taken  us  to  the 
pier  at  Pine  Street  wharf,  and  the  slight  jar  of  the  vessel 


NEW  YORK.  435 

as  she  came  alongside  sent  a  thrill  of  delight  through  our 
frames.  But  when  finally  the  ladder  was  let  down  and  we 
sprang  upon  the  pier,  it  was  with  an  electric  shock,  as  if  of 
recognition  from  the  very  soil.  It  was  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  we  were  glad  that  night  was  so  near 
at  hand.  After  such  strong  excitement,  and  even  bewilder- 
ment of  feeling,  as  we  had  known  since  morning,  the  pros- 
pect of  rest  was  very  attractive. 

But  no  sooner  were  we  fairly  deposited  in  a  hotel  than 
wre  must  needs  see  the  city  again.  How  we  had  talked  over 
this  hour !  How  we  had  thought  of  the  life,  the  neatness, 
the  comfort,  of  our  American  cities,  when  rambling  through 
some  filthy  and  depopulated  capital  of  the  Old  World  !  At 
first  sight  our  anticipations  were  not  borne  out.  There  had 
been  heavy  rains  for  a  week  or  two,  and  the  streets  were  not 
remarkably  clean  ;  houses  were  being  built  up  or  taken 
down  on  all  sides,  and  the  number  of  trees  in  full  foliage 
everywhere  visible  gave  us  the  idea  of  an  immense  unfin- 
ished country-town.  I  took  this  back,  it  is  true,  the  next 
morning,  when  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  streets  were 
thronged  with  people.  But  what  activity !  what  a  restless 
eagerness,  and  even  keenness  of  expression,  on  every  coun- 
tenance !  I  could  not  have  believed  that  the  general  cast 
of  the  American  face  was  so  sharp  ;  yet  nothing  was  so  re- 
markable as  the  perfect  independence  of  manner  which  we 
noticed  in  all,  down  to  the  very  children.  I  can  easily  con- 
ceive how  this  should  jar  with  the  feelings  of  a  stranger 
accustomed  to  the  deference — not  to  say  servility — in  which 
the  largest  class  of  the  people  of  Europe  is  trained ;  but  it 
was  a  most  refreshing  change  to  us.  Life  at  sea  sharpens 
one's  sensibilities  to  the  sounds  and  scents  of  land  in  a  very 
high  degree.  We  noticed  a  difference  in  the  atmosphere 
of  different  streets,  and  in  the  scent  of  leaves  and  grass, 
which  a  land-friend  who  was  with  us  failed  entirely  to  dis- 
tinguish. 

The  next  day,  as  we  left  New  York  and  in  perfect  exul- 
tation of  spirit  sped  across  New  Jersey  (which  was  never 


436  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

half  so  beautiful  to  our  eyes),  I  could  feel  nothing  but  one 
continued  sensation  of  the  country.  Fragrant  hayfield  and 
wild  clearing,  garden  and  marshy  hollow,  and  the  coo] 
shadow  of  the  woodlands,— I  was  by  turns  possessed  with 
the  spirit  of  them  all.  The  twilight  deepened  as  we  passed 
down  the  Delaware.  I  stood  on  the  promenade  deck  and 
watched  the  evening  star  kindling  through  the  cloudless 
flush  of  sunset,  while  the  winds  that  came  over  the  glassy 
river  bore  me  the  odor  of  long-remembered  meadow-flow- 
ers. We  asked  each  other  what  there  was  in  the  twilights 
of  Florence  and  Vallombrosa  more  delicious  than  this. 

A  night  in  neat,  cheerful,  home-like  Philadelphia — whose 
dimensions  Avere  also  a  little  shrunken  in  our  eyes — and  a 
glorious  June  morning  broke  on  the  last  day  of  our  pil- 
grimage. Again  we  were  on  the  Delaware,  pacing  the  deck 
in  rapture  at  the  green,  luxuriant  beauty  of  its  shores.  Is 
it  not  worth  years  of  absence  to  learn  how  to  love  one's 
land  as  it  should  be  loved  ?  Two  or  three  hours  brought  us 
to  Wilmington,  in  Delaware,  and  within  twelve  miles  of 
home.  Now  came  the  realization  of  a  plan  we  had  talked 
over  a  hundred  times  to  keep  up  our  spirits  when  the 
weather  was  gloomy  or  the  journey  lay  through  some  waste 
of  barren  country.  Our  knapsacks,  which  had  been  laid 
down  in  Paris,  were  again  taken  up,  slouched  German  hats 
substituted  for  our  modern  black  cylinders,  belt  and  blouse 
donned  and  the  pilgrim-staff  grasped  for  the  rest  of  our 
journey.  But  it  was  part  of  our  plan  that  we  should  not 
reach  home  till  after  nightfall — we  could  not  think  of  see- 
ing any  one  we  knew  before  those  who  were  nearest  to  us-^ 
and  so  it  was  necessary  to  wait  a  few  hours  before  starting. 

The  time  came.  That  walk  of  three  or  four  hours  seem- 
ed longer  than  many  a  day's  tramp  of  thirty  miles,  but 
every  step  of  the  way  was  familiar  ground.  The  people  we 
met  stared,  laughed  or  looked  suspiciously  after  us,  but  we 
were  quite  insensible  to  any  observation.  We  only  counted 
the  fields,  measured  the  distance  from  hill  to  hill,  and 
watched  the  gradual  decline  of  the  broad,  bright  sun.     It 


AT  HOME.  437 

went  down  at  last,  and  our  homes  were  not  far  off.  When 
the  twilight  grew  deeper,  we  parted,  and  each  thought  what 
an  experience  lay  between  that  moment  and  the  next  morn- 
ing. I  took  to  the  fields,  plunged  into  a  sea  of  dewy  clover, 
and  made  for  a  light  which  began  to  glimmer  as  it  grew 
darker.  When  I  reached  it  and  looked  with  the  most  pain- 
ful excitement  through  the  window  on  the  unsuspecting 
group  within,  there  was  not  one  face  missing. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

ADVICE   AND    INFORMATION    FOR   PEDESTRIANS. 

Although  the  narrative  of  my  journey  "  with  knapsack 
and  staff"  is  now  strictly  finished,  a  few  more  words  of  ex- 
planation seem  necessary  to  describe  more  fully  the  method 
of  travelling  w'hich  we  adopted.  I  add  them  the  more  will- 
ingly, as  it  is  my  belief  that  many  whose  circumstances 
are  similar  to  mine  desire  to  undertake  the  same  romantic 
journey.  Some  matter-of-fact  statements  may  be  to  them 
useful  as  well  as  interesting. 

To  see  Europe  as  a  pedestrian  requires  little  preparation, 
if  the  traveller  is  willing  to  forego  some  of  the  refinements 
of  living  to  which  he  may  have  been  accustomed  for  the 
sake  of  the  new  and  interesting  fields  of  observation  which 
will  be  opened  to  him.  He  must  be  content  to  sleep  on 
hard  beds  and  partake  of  coarse  fare,  to  undergo  rudeness 
at  times  from  the  officers  of  the  police  and  the  porters  of 
palaces  and  galleries,  or  to  travel  for  hours  in  rain  and 
storm  without  finding  a  shelter.  The  knapsack  will  at 
first  be  heavy  upon  the  shoulders,  the  feet  will  be  sore  and 
the  limbs  weary  with  the  day's  walk,  and  sometimes  the 
spirit  will  begin  to  flag  under  the  general  fatigue  of  body. 
This,  however,  soon  passes  over.  In  a  week's  time,  if  the 
pedestrian  does  not  attempt  too  much  on  setting  out,  his 
limbs  are  stronger  and  his  gait  more  firm  and  vigorous ;  he 


438  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

lies  down  at  night  with  a  feeling  of  refreshing  rest,  sleeps 
with  a  soundness,  undisturbed  by  a  single  dream,  that 
seems  almost  like  death,  if  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
restless  nights,  and  rises  invigorated  in  heart  and  frame  for 
the  next  day's  journey.  The  coarse  black  bread  of  the 
peasant-inns,  with  cheese  no  less  coarse  and  a  huge  mug  of 
milk  or  the  nourishing  beer  of  Germany,  have  a  relish  to 
his  keen  appetite  which  excites  his  own  astonishment.  And 
if  he  is  willing  to  regard  all  incivility  and  attempts  at  im- 
position as  valuable  lessons  in  the  study  of  human  nature, 
and  to  keep  his  temper  and  cheerfulness  in  any  situation 
which  may  try  them,  he  is  prepared  to  walk  through  the 
whole  of  Europe  with  more  real  pleasure  to  himself,  and 
far  more  profit,  than  if  he  journeyed  in  style  and  enjoyed  (?) 
the  constant  services  of  couriers  and  valets  de  place.  Should 
his  means  become  unusually  scant,  he  will  find  it  possible 
to  travel  on  an  amazingly  small  pittance,  and  with  more 
actual  bodily  comfort  than  would  seem  possible  to  one  who 
has  not  tried  it.  I  was  more  than  once  obliged  to  walk  a 
number  of  days  in  succession  on  less  than  a  franc  a  day, 
and  found  that  by  far  the  greatest  drawback  to  my  enjoy- 
ment was  the  fear  that  I  might  be  without  relief  when  this 
allowance  should  be  exhausted.  One  observes,  admires, 
wonders  and  learns  quite  as  extensively  under  such  circum- 
stances as  if  he  had  unlimited  means. 

Perhaps  some  account  of  this  truly  pilgrim-like  journey- 
ing may  possess  a  little  interest  for  the  general  reader. 

The  only  expense  that  cannot  be  reduced  at  will  in 
Europe  is  that  for  sleeping.  You  may  live  on  a  crust  of 
bread  a  day,  but  lower  than  four  cents  for  a  bed  you  can- 
not go.  In  Germany  this  is  the  regular  price  paid  by  trav- 
elling journeymen,  and  no  one  need  wish  for  a  more  com- 
fortable resting-place  than  those  massive  boxes  (when  you 
have  become  accustomed  to  their  shortness),  with  their 
coarse  but  clean  linen  sheets  and  healthy  mattresses  of 
straw.  In  Italy  the  price  varies  from  half  a  paid  to  a 
paul  (ten  cents),  but  a  person  somewhat  familiar  with  the 


OPEN-AIR  LIFE.  439 

language  would  not  often  be  asked  more  than  the  former 
price,  for  which  he  has  a  bed,  stuffed  with  corn-husks,  large 
enough  for  at  least  three  men.  I  was  asked  in  France  five 
sous  in  all  the  village  inns  from  Marseilles  to  Dieppe.  The 
pedestrian  cares  far  more  for  a  good  rest  than  for  the 
quality  of  his  fare,  and  a  walk  of  thirty  miles  prepares  him 
to  find  it  on  the  hardest  couch.  I  usually  rose  before  sunrise. 
and  immediately  began  the  day's  journey,  the  cost  of  lodg- 
ing having  been  paid  the  night  before — a  universal  custom 
among  the  common  inns  which  are  frequented  by  the  peas- 
antry. At  the  next  village  I  would  buy  a  loaf  of  the  hard 
brown  bread,  with  some  cheese  or  butter,  or  whatever  sub- 
stantial addition  could  be  made  at  trifling  cost,  and  break- 
fast upon  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  lying  at  full  length  on 
the  dewy  grass  and  using  my  knapsack  as  a  table.  I  might 
also  mention  that  a  leathern  pouch  fastened  to  one  side  of 
this  table  contained  a  knife  and  fork,  and  one  or  two  solid 
tin  boxes  for  articles  which  could  not  be  carried  in  the 
pocket.  A  similar  pouch  at  the  other  side  held  pen  and 
ink  and  a  small  bottle,  which  was  filled  sometimes  wTith  the 
fresh  water  of  the  streams,  and  sometimes  with  the  common 
country  wine  of  the  year's  vintage,  which  costs  from  three 
to  six  sous  the  quart. 

After  walking  more  than  half  the  distance  to  be  accom- 
plished, with  half  an  hour's  rest,  dinner  would  be  made  in 
the  same  manner,  and  while  we  rested  the  full  hour  allotted 
to  the  midday  halt  guide-books  would  be  examined,  jour- 
nals written,  a  sketch  made  of  the  landscape  or  our  minds 
refreshed  by  reading  a  passage  in  Milton  or  "Childe  Har- 
old." If  it  was  during  the  cold,  wet  days  of  winter,  we 
sought  a  rock,  or  sometimes  the  broad  abutment  of  a  chance 
bridge  upon  which  to  lie  ;  in  summer  it  mattered  little 
whether  we  rested  in  sun  or  shade,  under  a  bright  or  rainy 
sky.  The  vital  energy  which  this  life  in  the  open  air  gives 
to  the  constitution  is  remarkable.  The  very  sensation  of 
health  and  strength  becomes  a  positive  luxury,  and  the 
heart  overflows  with  its  buoyant  exuberance  of  cheerful- 


440  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

ness.  Every  breath  of  the  fresh  morning  air  was  like  a 
draught  of  some  sparkling  elixir  gifted  with  all  the  potency 
of  the  undiscovered  Fountain  of  Youth.  We  felt  pent  and 
oppressed  within  the  walls  of  a  dwelling  ;  it  was  far  more 
agreeable  to  march  in  the  face  of  a  driving  shower,  under 
whose  beating  the  blood  grew  fresh  and  warm,  than  to  sit 
by  a  dull  fireplace  waiting  for  it  to  cease.  Although  I  had 
lived  mainly  upon  a  farm  till  the  age  of  seventeen  and  was 
accustomed  to  out-door  exercise,  I  never  before  felt  how 
much  life  one  may  draw  from  air  and  sunshine  alone. 

Thus  what  at  first  was  borne  as  a  hardship  became  at  last 
an  enjoyment,  and  there  seemed  to  me  no  situation  so  ex- 
treme that  it  did  not  possess  some  charm  to  my  mind  which 
made  me  unwilling  to  shrink  from  the  experience.  Still, 
as  one  depth  of  endurance  after  another  was  reached,  the 
words  of  Cicero  would  recur  to  me  as  encouragement : 
"  Perhaps  even  this  may  hereafter  be  remembered  with 
pleasure."  Once  only,  while  waiting  six  days  at  Lyons  in 
gloomy  weather  and  among  harsh  people,  without  a  sous 
and  with  a  strong  doubt  of  receiving  any  relief,  I  became 
indifferent  to  what  might  happen,  and  would  have  passively 
met  any  change  for  the  worse,  as  men  who  have  been  ex- 
posed to  shipwreck  for  days  scarce  make  an  effort  to  save 
themselves  when  the  vessel  strikes  at  last. 

One  little  experience  of  this  kind,  though  less  desperate, 
may  be  worth  relating.  It  happened  during  my  stay  in 
Florence ;  and  what  might  not  a  man  bear  for  the  sake  of 
living  in  the  midst  of  such  a  paradise?  My  comrade  and 
I  had  failed  to  receive  a  remittance  at  the  expected  time, 
and  our  funds  had  gone  down  to  zero.  The  remaining  one 
of  our  trio  of  Americans  who  had  taken  a  suite  of  rooms 
in  company — a  noble-hearted  Kentuckian — shared  his  own 
means  with  us  till  what  he  had  in  Florence  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted. His  banker  lived  in  Leghorn,  and  he  concluded 
to  go  there  and  draw  for  more  instead  of  having  it  sent 

through  a  correspondent.     B decided  to  accompany 

him,  and  two  young  Englishmen  who  had  just  arrived  on 


STARVATION  EXPERIENCE.  441 

foot  from  Geneva  joined  the  party.  They  resolved  on 
making  an  adventure  out  of  the  expedition,  and  it  was  ac- 
cordingly agreed  that  they  should  take  one  of  the  market- 
boats  of  the  Arno  and  sail  down  to  Pisa,  more  than  fifty 
miles  distant,  by  the  river.  We  paid  one  or  two  visits  to 
the  western  gate  of  the  city,  where  numbers  of  these  craft 
always  lie  at  anchor,  and  struck  a  bargain  with  a  sturdy 
boatman  that  he  should  take  them  for  a  scudo  (about  one 
dollar)  each. 

The  hour  of  starting  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
I  accompanied  them  to  the  starting-place.  The  boat  had  a 
slight  canvas  covering,  and  the  crew  consisted  only  of  the 
owner  and  his  son  Antonio,  a  boy  of  ten.  I  shall  not  re- 
count their  voyage  all  that  night  (which  was  so  cold  that 
they  tied  each  other  up  in  the  boatman's  meal-bags,  around 
the  neck,  and  lay  down  in  a  heap  on  the  ribbed  bottom  of 
the  boat)  nor  their  adventures  in  Pisa  and  Leghorn.  They 
were  to  be  absent  three  or  four  days  and  had  left  me  money 
enough  to  live  upon  in  the  mean  time,  but  the  next  morning 
an  unexpected  expense  consumed  nearly  the  whole  of  it. 
I  had  about  four  crazie  (three  cents)  a  day  for  my  meals, 
and  by  spending  one  of  these  for  bread  and  the  remainder 
for  ripe  figs — of  which  one  crazie  will  purchase  fifteen  or 
twenty — I  managed  to  make  a  diminutive  breakfast  and 
dinner,  but  was  careful  not  to  take  much  exercise,  on  ac- 
count of  the  increase  of  hunger.  As  it  happened,  my 
friends  remained  two  days  longer  than  I  had  expected,  and 
the  last  two  crazie  I  had  were  expended  for  one  day's  pro- 
visions. I  then  decided  to  try  the  next  day  without  any- 
thing, and  actually  felt  a  curiosity  to  know  what  one's  sen- 
sations would  be  on  experiencing  two  or  three  days  of 
starvation.  I  knew  that  if  the  feeling  should  become  in- 
supportable I  could  easily  walk  out  to  the  mountain  of 
Fiesole,  where  a  fine  fig  orchard  shaded  the  old  Roman  am- 
phitheatre. But  the  experiment  was  broken  off  in  its  com- 
mencement by  the  arrival  of  the  absent  ones  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.     Such  is  the  weakness  of  human  nature  that, 


442  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

on  finding  I  should  not  want  for  breakfast,  I  arose  from  bed 
and  ate  two  or  three  figs  which  by  a  strong  exertion  I  had 
saved  from  the  scanty  allowance  of  the  diiy.  I  only  relate 
this  incident  to  show  that  the  severest  deprivation  is  very 
easily  borne,  and  that  it  is  worth  bearing  for  what  it  teaches. 

So,  also,  when  a  storm  came  up  at  nightfall  while  we 
were  a  league  distant  from  the  end  of  our  journey,  after  the 
first  natural  shrinking  from  its  violence  was  over,  there  was 
a  sublime  pleasure  in  walking  in  the  midst  of  darkness  and 
dashing  rain.  There  have  been  times  when  the  sky  was 
black,  just  revealing  its  deeps  of  whelming  cloud,  and  the 
winds  full  of  the  cold,  fresh,  saddening  spirit  of  the  storm, 
which  I  would  not  have  exchanged  for  the  brightness  of  a 
morning  beside  the  sea. 

A  few  words  in  relation  to  a  pedestrian's  equipment  may 
be  of  some  practical  value.  An  idea  of  the  general  appear- 
ance of  the  travelling  costume  of  a  German  student — which 
I  adopted  as  the  most  serviceable  and  agreeable — may  be 
obtained  from  the  portrait  accompanying  this  volume,  but 
there  are  many  small  particulars,  in  addition,  which  I  have 
often  been  asked  to  give.  It  is  the  best  plan  to  take  no 
more  clothing  than  is  absolutely  required,  as  the  traveller 
will  not  desire  to  carry  more  than  fifteen  pounds  on  his 
back,  knapsack  included.  A  single  suit  of  good  dark  cloth, 
with  a  supply  of  linen,  will  be  amply  sufficient.  The  strong 
linen  blouse  confined  by  a  leather  belt  will  protect  it  from 
the  dust ;  and  when  this  is  thrown  aside  on  entering  a  city, 
the  traveller  makes  a  very  respectable  appearance.  The 
slouched  hat  of  finely-woven  felt  is  a  delightful  covering  to 
the  head,  serving  at  the  same  time  as  umbrella  or  night-cap, 
travelling  dress  or  visiting  costume.  No  one  should  neglect 
a  good  cane,  which,  besides  its  feeling  of  companionship,  is 
equal  to  from  three  to  five  miles  a  day,  and  may  serve  as 
a  defence  against  banditti  or  savage  Bohemian  dogs.  In 
the  Alps  the  tall  staves  pointed  with  iron  and  topped  with 
a  curved  chamois-horn  can  be  bought  for  a  franc  apiece, 
and  are  of  great  assistance  in  crossing  ice-fields  or  sustain- 


KNAPSACK  EQUIPMENT.  443 

ing  the  weight  of  the  hody  in  descending  steep  and  difficult 
passes. 

An  umbrella  is  inconvenient,  unless  it  is  short  and  may 
be  strapped  on  the  knapsack,  but  even  then  an  ample  cape 
of  oiled  silk  or  India-rubber  cloth  is  far  preferable.  The 
pedestrian  need  not  be  particular  in  this  respect:  he  will 
soon  grow  accustomed  to  an  occasional  drenching,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  men,  like  plants,  do  not  thrive  under  it 
when  they  have  outgrown  the  hot-house  nature  of  civiliza- 
tion in  a  life  under  the  open  heaven.  A  portfolio  capable 
of  hard  service,  with  a  guide-book  or  two,  pocket-compass 
and  spyglass,  completes  the  contents  of  the  knapsack, 
though,  if  there  is  still  a  small  corner  to  spare,  I  would  rec- 
ommend that  it  be  filled  with  pocket  editions  of  one  or  two 
of  the  good  old  English  classics.  It  is  a  rare  delight  to  sit 
down  in  the  gloomy  fastnesses  of  the  Hartz  or  in  the  breezy 
valleys  of  Styria  and  read  the  majestic  measures  of  our 
glorious  Saxon  bards.  Milton  is  first  fully  appreciated 
when  you  look  up  from  his  page  to  the  snowy  ramparts  of 
the  Alps  which  shut  out  all  but  the  heaven  of  whose  beauty 
he  sang,  and  all  times  and  places  are  fitting  for  the  univer- 
sal Shakespeare.  "  Childe  Harold  "  bears  such  a  glowing 
impress  of  the  scenery  on  which  Byron's  eye  has  dwelt  that 
it  spoke  to  me  like  the  answering  heart  of  a  friend  from  the 
crag  of  Drachenfels,  in  the  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone  and 
beside  the  breathing  marbles  of  the  Vatican  and  the  Capitol. 

A  little  facility  in  sketching  from  nature,  is  a  most  useful 
and  delightful  accomplishment  for  the  pedestrian.  He  may 
bring  away  the  features  of  wild  and  unvisited  landscapes, 
the  picturesque  fronts  of  peasant-cottages  and  wayside  shrines, 
or  the  simple  beauty  of  some  mountain-child  watching  his 
herd  of  goats.  Though  having  little  knowledge  and  no 
practice  in  the  art,  I  persevered  in  my  awkward  attempts, 
and  was  soon  able  to  take  a  rough  and  rapid  but  tolerably 
correct  outline  of  almost  any  scene.  These  memorials  of 
two  years  of  travel  have  now  a  value  to  me  which  I  would 
not  exchange  for  the  finest  engravings,  however  they  might 


444  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

excel  in  faithful  representation.  Another  article  of  equip- 
ment which  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  mention  is  a  small 
bottle  of  the  best  cognac  with  which  to  bathe  the  feet  morn- 
ing and  evening  for  the  first  week  or  two,  or  as  long  as  they 
continue  tender  with  the  exercise.  It  was  also  very  strength- 
ening and  refreshing,  when  the  body  was  unusually  weary 
with  a  long  day's  walking  or  climbing,  to  use  as  an  outward 
stimulant,  for  I  never  had  occasion  to  apply  it  internally. 
Many  of  the  German  students  wear  a  wicker  flask  slung 
over  their  shoulder  containing  kirschivasser,  which  they  mix 
with  the  water  of  the  mountain-streams,  but  this  is  not  at 
all  necessary  to  the  traveller's  health  and  comfort. 

These  students,  with  all  their  irregularities,  are  a  noble, 
warm-hearted  class,  and  make  the  best  companions  in  the 
world.  During  the  months  of  August  and  September  hun- 
dreds of  them  ramble  through  Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol, 
extending  their  route  sometimes  to  Venice  and  Rome.  With 
their  ardent  love  for  everything  republican,  they  will  always 
receive  an  American  heartily,  consecrate  him  as  a  burseh 
and  admit  him  to  their  fellowship.  With  the  most  of  them 
an  economy  of  expense  is  part  of  the  habit  of  their  student- 
life,  and  they  are  only  spendthrifts  on  the  articles  of  beer 
and  tobacco.  A  month's  residence  in  Heidelberg — the 
most  beautiful  place  in  Germany — will  serve  to  make  the 
young  American  acquainted  with  their  habits  and  able  to 
join  them  for  an  adventurous  foot-journey  with  the  greatest 
advantage  to  himself. 

We  always  accepted  a  companion,  of  whatever  kind, 
while  walking — from  chimney-sweeps  to  barons.  In  a 
strange  country  one  can  learn  something  from  every  peas- 
ant, and  we  neglected  no  opportunity  not  only  to  obtain 
information,  but  to  impart  it.  We  found  everywhere  great 
curiosity  respecting  America,  and  we  were  always  glad  to 
tell  them  all  they  wished  to  know.  In  Germany  we  were 
generally  taken  for  Germans  from  some  part  of  the  country 
where  the  dialect  was  a  little  different ;  or  if  they  remarked 
our  foreign  peculiarities,  they  supposed  we  were  either  Poles, 


IGNORANCE  CONCERNING  AMERICA.  445 

Russians  or  Swiss.  The  greatest  ignorance  in  relation  to 
America  prevails  among  the  common  people.  They  imag- 
ine we  are  a  savage  race  without  intelligence,  and  almost 
without  law.  Persons  of  education  who  had  some  slight 
knowledge  of  our  history  showed  a  curiosity  to  know  some- 
thing of  our  political  condition.  They  are  taught  by  the 
German  newspapers  (which  are  under  a  strict  censorship 
in  this  respect)  to  look  only  at  the  evil  in  our  country,  and 
they  almost  invariably  began  by  adverting  to  slavery  and 
repudiation.  While  we  admitted — often  with  shame  and 
mortification — the  existence  of  things  so  inconsistent  with 
true  republicanism,  we  endeavored  to  make  them  compre- 
hend the  advantages  enjoyed  by  the  free  citizen,  the  com- 
plete equality  of  birth  which  places  America,  despite  her 
sins,  far  above  any  other  nation  on  earth.  I  could  plainly 
see  by  the  kindling  eye  and  half-suppressed  sigh  that  they 
appreciated  a  freedom  so  immeasurably  greater  than  that 
which  they  enjoyed. 

In  large  cities  we  always  preferred  to  take  the  second-  or 
third-rate  hotels,  which  are  generally  visited  by  merchants 
and  persons  who  travel  on  business ;  for,  with  the  same 
comforts  as  the  first  rank,  they  are  nearly  twice  as  cheap. 
A  traveller  with  a  guide-book  and  a  good  pair  of  eyes  can 
also  dispense  with  the  services  of  a  courier,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  conduct  strangers  about  the  city  from  one  lion  to  another. 
We  chose  rather  to  find  out  and  view  the  sights  at  our 
leisure.  In  small  villages  where  we  were  often  obliged  to 
stop  we  chose  the  best  hotels,  which,  particularly  in  North- 
ern Germany  and  in  Italy,  are  none  too  good  ;  but  if  it  was 
a  post — that  is,  a  town  where  the  postchaise  stops  to  change 
horses — we  usually  avoided  the  post-hotel,  where  one  must 
pay  high  for  having  curtains  before  his  windows  and  a  more 
elegant  cover  on  his  bed.  In  the  less  splendid  country-inns 
we  always  found  neat,  comfortable  lodging  and  a  pleasant, 
friendly  reception  from  the  people.  They  saluted  us  on  en- 
tering with  "  Be  you  welcome  !"  and  on  leaving  wished  us  a 
pleasant  journey  and  good  fortune.     The  host,  when  he 


446  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

brought  us  supper  or  breakfast,  lifted  his  cap  and  wished 
us  a  good  appetite,  and  when  he  lighted  us  to  our  chambers 
left  us  with  "  May  you  sleep  well !"  We  generally  found 
honest,  friendly  people ;  they  delighted  in  telling  us  about 
the  country  around — what  ruins  there  were  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  what  strange  legends  were  connected  with  them. 
The  only  part  of  Europe  where  it  is  unpleasant  to  travel  in 
this  manner  is  Bohemia.  We  could  scarcely  find  a  com- 
fortable inn ;  the  people  all  spoke  an  unknown  language 
and  were  not  particularly  celebrated  for  their  honesty.  Be- 
sides this,  travellers  rarely  go  on  foot  in  those  regions ;  we 
were  frequently  taken  for  travelling  handwerker  and  sub- 
jected to  imposition. 

With  regard  to  passports,  although  they  were  vexatious 
and  often  expensive,  we  found  little  difficulty  when  we  had 
acquainted  ourselves  with  the  regulations  concerning  them. 
In  France  and  Germany  they  are  comparatively  little  trou- 
ble ;  in  Italy  they  are  the  traveller's  greatest  annoyance. 
Americans  are  treated  with  less  strictness  in  this  respect 
than  citizens  of  other  nations,  and,  owing  to  the  absence  of 
rank  among  us,  they  also  enjoy  greater  advantages  of  ac- 
quaintance and  intercourse. 

The  expenses  of  travelling  in  England,  although  much 
greater  than  in  our  own  country,  may,  as  we  learned  by 
experience,  be  brought  through  economy  within  the  same 
compass.  Indeed,  it  is  my  belief  from  observation  that, 
with  few  exceptions,  throughout  Europe,  where  a  traveller 
enjoys  the  same  comfort  and  abundance  as  in  America,  he 
must  pay  the  same  prices.  The  principal  difference  is  that 
he  only  pays  for  what  he  gets ;  so  that  if  he  be  content 
with  the  necessities  of  life,  without  its  luxuries,  the  expense 
is  in  proportion. 

The  best  coin  for  the  traveller's  purpose  is  English  gold, 
which  passes  at  a  considerable  premium  on  the  Continent 
and  is  readily  accepted  at  all  the  principal  hotels.  Having 
to  earn  my  means  as  I  went  along,  I  was  obliged  to  have 
money  forwarded  in  small  remittances,  generally  in  drafts 


A  FEEE  PASSPORT.  447 

on  the  house  of  Hottinger  &  Co.,  in  Paris,  which  could  be 
cashed  in  any  large  city  of  Europe.  If  only  a  short  tour 
is  intended  and  the  pedestrian's  means  are  limited,  he  may 
easily  carry  the  necessary  amount  with  him.  There  is  little 
danger  of  robbery  for  those  who  journey  in  such  a  hum- 
ble style.  I  never  lost  a  single  article  in  this  manner,  and 
rarely  had  any  feeling  but  that  of  perfect  security.  No 
part  of  our  own  country  is  safer  in  this  respect  than  Ger- 
many, Switzerland  or  France.  Italy  still  bears  an  unfortu- 
nate reputation  for  honesty ;  the  defiles  of  the  Apennines 
and  the  hollows  of  the  Roman  Camj^agna  are  haunted  by 
banditti,  and  persons  who  travel  in  their  own  carriages  are 
often  plundered.  I  saw  the  caves  and  hiding-places  of  these 
outlaws  among  the  evergreen  shrubbery  in  the  pass  of  Monte 
Somma,  near  Spoleto,  but,  as  we  had  a  dragoon  in  the  crazy 
old  vehicle,  we  feared  no  hindrance  from  them.  A  Swed- 
ish gentleman  in  Rome  told  me  he  had  walked  from  Ancona 
through  the  mountains  to  the  Eternal  City,  partly  by  night, 
but  that,  although  he  met  with  many  meaning  faces,  he  was 
not  disturbed  in  any  way.  An  English  artist  of  my  ac- 
quaintance walked  from  Leghorn  along  the  Tuscan  and 
Tyrrhene  coast  to  Civita  Vecchia  through  a  barren  and 
savage  district  overgrown  with  aloes  and  cork  trees  with- 
out  experiencing  any  trouble  except  from  the  extreme  curi- 
osity of  the  ignorant  inhabitants.  The  fastnesses  of  the 
Abruzzi  have  been  explored  with  like  facility  by  daring 
pedestrians  ;  indeed,  the  sight  of  a  knapsack  seems  to  serve 
as  a  free  passport  with  all  highwaymen. 

I  have  given  at  times  through  the  foregoing  chapters  the 
cost  of  portions  of  my  journey  and  residence  in  various 
cities  of  Europe.  The  cheapest  country  for  travelling,  as 
far  as  my  experience  extended,  is  Southern  Germany,  where 
one  can  travel  comfortably  on  twenty-five  cents  a  dajr. 
Italy  and  the  South  of  France  come  next  in  order,  and  are 
but  little  more  expensive;  then  follow  Switzerland  and 
Northern  Germany,  and  lastly  Great  Britain.  The  cheap- 
est city,  and  one  of  the  pleasantest  in  the  world,  is  Florence, 


448  VIEWS  A-FOOT. 

where  we  breakfasted  on  five  cents,  dined  sumptuously  on 
twelve  and  went  to  a  good  opera  for  ten.  A  man  would 
find  no  difficulty  in  spending  a  year  there  for  about  twTo 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  This  fact  may  be  of  some  im- 
portance to  those  whose  health  requires  such  a  stay,  yet  are 
kept  back  from  attempting  the  voyage  through  fear  of  the 
expense.  Counting  the  passage  to  Leghorn  at  fifty  or  sixty 
dollars,  it  will  be  seen  how  little  is  necessary  for  a  year's 
enjoyment  of  the  sweet  atmosphere  of  Italy.  In  addition  to 
these  particulars,  the  following  connected  estimate  will  bet- 
ter show  the  minimum  expense  of  a  two  years'  pilgrimage : 

Voyage  to  Liverpool  in  the  second  cabin $24  00 

Three  weeks'  travel  in  Ireland  and  Scotland  .    .    .    .  25  00 

A  week  in  London,  at  three  shillings  a  day 4  50 

From  London  to  Heidelberg 15  00 

A  month  at  Heidelberg,  and  trip  to   Frankfort  .    .    .  20  00 
Seven  months  in  Frankfort,  at  ten  dollars  per  month  70  00 
Fuel,  passports,  excursions,  and  other  expenses    .    .  30  00 
Tour  through  Cassel,  the  Hartz,  Saxony,  Austria,  Ba- 
varia, etc 40  00 

A  month  in  Frankfort 10  00 

From  Frankfort  through  Switzerland,  and  over  the 

Alps  to  Milan 15  00 

From  Milan  to  Genoa 60 

Expenses  from  Genoa  to  Florence 14  00 

Four  months   in   Florence 50  00 

Eight  days'  journey  from  Florence  to  Rome,  two 
weeks  in  Rome,  voyage  to  Marseilles  and  jour- 
ney to  Paris 40  00 

Five  weeks  in  Paris 15  00 

From  Paris  to  London 8  00 

Six  weeks  in  London,  at  three  shillings  a  day  .    .    .  31  00 

Passage  home •  60  00 

$472  10 

The  cost  for  places  of  amusement,  guides'  fees  and  other 
small  expenses  not  included  in  this  list  increase  the  sum- 
total  to  five  hundred  dollars,  for  which  the  tour  may  be 
made.  Now,  having,  I  hope,  established  this  to  the  reader's 
satisfaction,  I  respectfully  take  leave  of  him. 


xms  dook  is  jjuju  on  tiie  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9-35wi-8,'28 


T21v  Taylor  - 

1 891  JViews  a-fo  o t 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  675  914    6 


D9I3 
89I 


.LirOKW^ 


liflt 


v.,. 


« 


« 


■ 


